


A Freudian Slip (or, I wrote this whilst listening to The Beatles)

by Couldbeamidget



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: A fuck ton (IU) of angst, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and angst and more angst - see chapter 25, Consequences of torture, Eventual Happy Ending, Examining bisexuality, Falling In Love, Heavy conversation after deep penetration, Inventive sexual positions, Lots of Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, PTSD, Post-Reichenbach, Rimming, Scars, Sherlock mans up and admits he feels emotion, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, honestly, this was supposed to be light-hearted, what the hell is wrong with me?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 60,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/Couldbeamidget
Summary: John and Sherlock analyze their relationship. It gets intense. After this I think I should change my username to Couldbeapervert.Also, I like the Beatles, and Freud was a jerk.





	1. Sherlock and His Superego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a bit of a douche. Yeah, I said it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okee Dokey - Sherlock and Co. was created by Arthur Conan Doyle, re-imagined by the BBC and other such people far more intelligent than I. As stated by the consulting detective himself, "Not you. Not you. Not you."
> 
> Also, I have taken great liberties in by mixing and mucking up the meanings behind Freud's own words. Sorry...not sorry. Blame it on my over-achieving id.
> 
> One last thing - this is vaguely AU - set somewhere in Season 3. However, we all have to agree that John never married Mary. It neeevvvverrr happened. I wanted to write something silly and non-angsty.
> 
> Epic fail on being non-angsty. Silly, yes, I think that this label still applies  
>    
> Okay...really epic fail on being fluff. Sorry. If you want fluff, stop at chapter 23
> 
> Just to be on the up and up, things get really Bipolar later on. From experience, I know that when strong emotions are repressed and then expressed, nine shades of holy hell break loose. Thing do smooth out and then more sex happens (yay).
> 
> FYI not beta's or Brit-picked. Any goofy mistakes are all mine.
> 
> "Love and work... work and love, that's all there is." - Sigmund Freud

    "You fucking  _moron!_ " John seethed through his teeth, as he plucked the sixty-third splinter out of Sherlock's arse. 

    "Shut up, John, and get back to work! How was I to know that the theatre director used to make furniture! It makes no sense, logically speaking; in fact completely contradictory, considering his skill set." The detective risked a surreptitious peek from over his shoulder. John looked angry...no, John was furious.

    "How? How? Because you are the only world's consulting detective, that's why! Because  _'I didn't know, I saw.' " As_  John spoke, his voice dropped an octave and took on a supercilious tone. "If you didn't have such a bloody big ego, you would have saved us both the trouble of my having to stick a pair of tweezers up your arse!"

     "Christ, John. Please do try and take it easy down there. I do expect to retain some soft tissue in my behind after you are finished." Sherlock huffed like the pompous douche bag he was and flopped down to his stomach with a groan. "Seriously, John, my arse hurts. Just fix it and I'll leave you alone."

   John continued to remove heavy oak splinters feeling slightly more conciliatory toward his reckless flatmate. Sherlock _was_ going to be quite uncomfortable for the foreseeable future. Well, at least when sitting down on his backside. "That's because you are a bloody pain in the arse. You mad wanker, what am I ever going to do with you?"

   Sherlock chose not to speculate.

   An endless hour later, splinters binned and Sherlock utterly exhausted from his bout of excessive whingeing, the consulting detective slid off his bed to his feet, back to John. He wrapped a towel around his waist, in deference to John's conservative sensibility.

   "Hold up," John commanded. "I need to apply some Garamycin first. No sense in risking infection."

    "Will that sting?" Sherlock whinged...again. 

    The doctor gawped at his flatmate. "Are you being serious right now? Are you the same man that walked about untreated with a two-inch stab wound in his thigh for _five days_ before bothering to mention it? Waiting until it got infected to seek aid from his doctor _and flatmate_?"

    Sherlock sniffed imperiously. "I'll have you know I have a very sensitive bum. I can't help it, it hurts." He softly patted his rump, face reddening.

    "I might still have a bit of Ibuleve gel...I'll have to look. That should ease your pain. Also, no pants until tomorrow. Just air out your bum for the evening - just...just put on a dressing gown if you plan on moving about. Use the new one, it'll be gentler on your skin." John's cheeks burned hot at the thought of sensitive skin. The sensitive skin on Sherlock's behind. He hoped he hadn't turned red as well. Sherlock might think John was affected by his nudity. No. Nonsense. Sherlock didn't think that way. And besides, he was strictly heterosexual. Everyone knew that.

    And, a doctor. He was a professional. Treating his patient. Treating a strikingly gorgeous patient for whom he happened to feel very... affectionate about.

    Right.

    Sherlock strode toward his wardrobe. "Very well. And, uhm...thank you, John. I am sorry for acting like such an arse...well. Anyway. Care for a cuppa?" he asked, turning to peer down at John.

    John gaped at his friend, flabbergasted. Where had this sudden equanimity come from? "No problems, mate. Just  _think_ before jumping into dangerous situations, yeah? It could have been more than your bum that got injured."

   "Of course. So, I'll need to get on with it if you do want tea, you didn't specify," the detective said, gesturing to his towel.

   "That would be lovely, thanks," John mumbled, packing away his supplies.

    The rest of the evening was quite uneventful. Both men were very relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be on the up and up, I'm supplying the sources for dear Mr. Freud's words of wisdom (ummm). Anyway, I was too lazy to mark down the specific text from where each quote is cited. I blame it all on my id. ;p
> 
> Also, AO3 won't let me underline in this text box, so just assume that I knew that I was supposed to underline the book titles. Also, the dates for each work are a bit dodgy, depending on the veracity of each website.
> 
> So:
> 
> The Interpretation of Dreams (1900)  
> Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920)  
> Introduction to Psychoanalysis (1917)  
> Civilization and Its Discontents (1930)


	2. It Id What it Id -  Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a poke from his inner child
> 
> Hi, just an FYI, I am going on a 10-day vacation. So, hopefully I will be able post updates. I don't know how many cell towers exist in Utah. Wish me luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One might compare the relation of the ego to the id with that between a rider and his horse. The horse provides the locomotor energy, and the rider has the prerogative of determining the goal and of guiding the movements of his powerful mount towards it. But all too often in the relations between the ego and the id we find a picture of the less ideal situation in which the rider is obliged to guide his horse in the direction in which it itself wants to go."  
> From New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis, 1932.

    The game was _on_.

     Sherlock was at the head of the chase, feet splashing wildly in the torrential downpour. He swung to the right with an elegant flourish of fancy footwork and pinwheeling arms, spun around street corner, and disappeared from John's sight.

     John launched over a black Norway rat the size of a corgi as it bolted out of an overturned bin. Dr. John Watson, proud former member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; three-year veteran of Afganistan, Kandahar, Helman and Bath (Bloody) Hospital screamed like a little girl and landed cock-eyed on a cracked bit of pavement.

     "Fucking shite!" the former soldier howled, resting on all fours in a oil-slicked puddle. He smacked at the sludge with annoyance. Sherlock was going to have a field day with this.

     "Rrrgh...bloody hell," the doctor grumbled, navigating backwards and out of the water to plop on his rump. John's left ankle, exponentially swelling over the lip of his loafer, represented days off of work, off of Work. A bit not good. Sherlock might be lost without his blogger.

     The cacophony of police sirens abruptly rose in volume, and John blinked as a blur of one, two, three police cars whizzed past in the cross street. Tires squealing, the officers followed Sherlock's trail. John smiled at the ironic twist of order.

     Sherlock was seriously fleet of feet; but he was no Superman. Or so...faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive (er...Underground explosive), able to leap off tall buildings in a single bound...(and come back to their roommates unscathed, thank you very much). His brilliant flatmate had once again beat the NSY to the scene.

      _Superlock?_  

    The doctor snorted, amused at the thought. Sherlock's coat as his cape. A vivid image of the detective, ripping open his purple-shirt-of-sex, flying off to fight crime in his Superlock suit....why not? He giggled merrily, tilting his head back to gaze at the sky. The doctor gave a full body shiver as a gust of cold air whipped through the alley. His teeth began to emphatically chatter.

      _I_ _think I am in shock._

A scuffling of hard-soled shoes alerted John that he had company. He twisted his torso and spied Donovan, sourly calling in for an ambulance.

     "What happened, John? Stop for a swim?" Sally smirked, looking down in squint-eyed scrutiny. "I assume you've been injured?"

     "Great deductive reasoning, Detective Donovan. I came down wrong on my ankle. At first I suspected a bad sprain and some ligament damage, but now...damn it, it's broken. Most likely, a complete fracture of the fibula and tibia," John said, wincing as he gingerly palpated his ankle. "Possibly the talus as well."

     Sally wiped the smirk off her face and crouched down to take a better look at the man. "Are you alright? The paramedics should be here shortly." She evaluated John's condition, noting the pallor of his cheeks, sweaty brow, and shaking hands.

    "I've been better. This hurts like a bitch," the little man groaned, straightening his left leg onto the pavement. 

     "Here, wear this," Sally grumbled, yanking off her sports coat and wrapping it around John's shoulders. "I suppose Sherlock wasn't around when you fell?"     

     "Nope. He was far on ahead by the time this," he gestured at his ankle in disgust, "happened."

     Sally, wise enough to keep her darker opinions to herself, merely humphed and leaned over to rub at his arms. "You've turned blue. The paramedics should be here any second." 

    "I'm good. I've had worse." Although the doctor tried sounding blasé, the detective wasn't fooled. John was hurting, and badly.  

     She continued rubbing John's arms and back as they waited. The doctor's body now gyrated furiously upon the ground, shock in full swing. Sally leaned down and embrace his body with her arms and torso, sheltering his wet body from the wind. He sniffed in surprise at her kindness and medical know-how.

      "Thanks, Sally. I appreciate it," John grated out between blue lips. "It's an honor."

     The detective snorted. "Merely doing my duty. Don't get used to it." She smiled down at him, expression belying her unfriendly words. "You're not as much of an arse as your flatmate. I am simply trying to keep you stable until the medics arrive _, or at least until_ _he_  comes back and ridicules you for missing the chase. I can't bear his snarky attitude towards you. It's rude and unfounded."

    "Ha! What would Sherlock be, if not rude? Possibly, he and I are both ridiculous," the doctor protested. "Sherlock for being a egotistical wanker, and I for putting up with his outrageous behavior. Nevertheless, it sounds as if he's solved another crime tonight. Perhaps, he can have his moment in the sun. And _then_ I'll make him feel guilty for leaving me behind."

     The detective opened her mouth to express her opinion, but was waylaid by the noise of the umteenth deafening siren of the night. Two minutes later, a hefty man sporting a patchy brown mustache (partially chewed off, John surmised), wheeled the trolley over the uneven road. Its wheels grated in protest with each crack and divot, and John wondered how painfully jarring the return trip would be. A buxom redhead, uniform buttons straining painfully, jogged past the shops with their gear.

     John was pushing unconsciousness, so left the pair two their own devices. They could figure this out, stabilize his leg and his vitals, whatever. The doctor's plan of action involved soaking up the warmth of a hideously orange shock blanket, then bathing in the glow of a lovely narcotic. It was a fine plan, and he was sticking to it.

     Tragically, Sherlock anticipated their evening consisting of an alternate course of action. _His_  plan involved several logical steps. One: chastising John for failing to keep up. Two: basking in the warmth of John's typical wonder and praise. Three: picking up takeaway from the little Indian restaurant he'd smelled up the block, and scarfing down all of the curry before exiting the taxi. Four: he himself, wrapping up a highly satisfactory evening by completing an ongoing experiment. This involved measuring the rates of dissolution of human toes in 15 different acids. It was a fine plan, and he was sticking to it.

     Until he couldn't.

    Sherlock eyed John frantically, non-sociopathic face radiating guilt and horror. His flatmate looked bloody awful; grey, shaking with cold, and in obvious agony despite his brave facade. Lestrade, Sherlock's shuttle back to the alley, paced rapidly in consternation. The paramedics levered John to the trolley and John grunted.

    Damn those two! This was his case, and therefore his self-appointed duty to keep the pair safe. He despised the idiotic risks John and Sherlock took. Lestrade worked under juristiction of the NSY. Those morons worked for the thrill. As long as the gits followed the law (mostly), Lestrade had no say for their actions. Nevertheless, when one or both suffered injury...oh, the guilt.

  ******

    At precisely half two in the morning, John was wheeled into the surgery's recovery room. Two metal pins and three bone fragments shy of a complete tibia later, well... perhaps Sherlock should find John's old cane. At least John could rest assured that his new limp wasn't psychosomatic.

     John stirred to consciousness at 5:32 am - and 18 seconds, but who was counting? The doctor's pasty complexion, fluttering eyelids, and down-turned mouth triggered something antsy and uncomfortable in Sherlock.

    He knew the streets and pathway of London. He'd chosen the logical route for the chase. Perhaps, a bit more thought should have been put into calculating the risks, considering the  number of pot holes vs. John's temperamental right leg. His route. His choice. John's woefully injured left ankle.

    All said and done, he had apprehended the guilty party. One less criminal roamed London's streets. Another crime solved by the great Sherlock Holmes. 

    Great. 

     And John might face permanent damage to his ankle. Sherlock so wished he could take it all back.

 


	3. It Id What it Id - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has loose lips under the influence of heavy pain meds

     Sherlock eyed John as he laid on the pathetically low thread-count sheets, and even worse hospital mattress. His skin, colorless and weathered, sent a sickening series of cramps in his stomach. 

     _John. My lovely John. What have I done?_

The detective perched on the edge of the squeaky leatherette chair, plate-sized hands practically splintering the scratched arms in his consternation. Sherlock's vigil strained his already precarious mood. He was not a patient man.

     He waited. And squirmed. And sighed.

     And waited.

     To Sherlock's utter relief, John emitted a groan and roused, fluttering his eyes so that Sherlock glimpsed slivers of blue iris ensconced within reddish, bloodshot sclera.

     "John!" He whispered hoarsely. "John, wake up!" Sherlock bit his lip as John's eyes rolled madly in their sockets. "I'm here, John. It's Sherlock. Your partner, er, flatmate.

     The detective swallowed dryly, trying to dispel the massive lump in his throat. "You're in hospital, John, because... because...because I miscalculated."

     John made a valiant effort to focus on Sherlock without meeting much success. He settled for gazing up at the ceiling, and instead marshalled his willpower to gain full consciousness. "Uuungh."

     John coughed, throat dry and irritated from intubation during the surgery. After a few more minutes of fluttering lids and vague attempts to establish his whereabouts, he locked eyes with Sherlock. His tongue felt like it had been shellacked.

    "Sherlock. Wha... happe...?" he croaked. Hand shaking from the pain meds, he touched his fingers to his mouth. "Something to..." he wiggled his fingers, "for...water?" 

      Sherlock leapt to his feet and leaned over John with a pained expression. "I...Uhm," the detective dithered, swiveling in an arc to scan the room for the obligatory plastic water pitcher replete with bendy straw. "Hold on, John. I will ask the nurses." Straightening up, Sherlock strode out of the room, relieved to have something helpful to do.

 Five minutes later, Sherlock burst back into the recovery room armed with an enormous cup of packed with ice. "Ice chips for now, John. The nurses are  _very_ recalcitrant about water at the moment. They want you to wait until you are fully alert. Whilst I agree that it is best from a purely medical standpoint, there was absolutely no need to be so appallingly rude." Scooting a chair up to the bed, Sherlock dug in the cup for some ice.

    "'Kay...no pah - problum." An odd, puckish smirk suddenly graced his lips. He tee-heed. "Here, I have n'idea." John opened his mouth, head back like a baby bird awaiting a worm. "Ahhhhhh...say aaah, Sherlock. Say ah for your doctor." He giggled, lunging forward with his lips to grasp at the the ice chip. The detective froze, heart suddenly stuck in his throat.

     "Ehh...John...ahem," Sherlock faltered in bewildered shock. John Watson, ex-army surgeon, stalwart companion, and "I-am-absolutely-not-gay" flatmate was humming contentedly whilst sucking hard on the ice.

     Considering John's obvious need for hydration, this wasn't unusual. However, said ice remained clutched between Sherlock's thumb and forefinger. He'd been trapped in John's mouth. This was unusual.

     John sucked the ice until it melted, swallowing down the cool liquid with relief. Sherlock was a deer in the headlights, goggling at his friend like he'd grown another head. John continued working his tongue, laving Sherlock's fingers heatedly. The doctor's eyelids fluttered, and then closed. He moaned deeply before shifting his head slightly, taking Sherlock's digits along with him. He wiggled, trying to nest in the hard hospital pillow.

     Was he falling asleep? The detective debated, watching John's breathing slow down and his face soften. Should he allow John to another minute to settle, or slip his fingers out now? Imagining one of the headstrong nurses bustling in any second, Sherlock concluded that sooner was best. 

     However, the doctor saved Sherlock the effort. Eyes popping wide, John released Sherlock's fingers with an obscene pop of his lips. "More!" He demanded. "I am very thirsty and you..." a snorting giggle crinkled his nose, "you taste good."

     Sherlock cast about wildly, checking the bedside table drawers for a smaller cup, a plastic spoon, hell, a tongue depressor, _anything_  to place a barrier between his fingers and John's mouth. Any more finger sucking, and the results would be disastrous for his composure. He wiped off John's saliva on his pants, silently begging his penis to shut up and sit down.

    John threw his head back on to the pillow and giggled again. "Sheerrrr...lock, Lockybock, enormous cock..." An outright, dirty guffaw sprang from John's lips at the horrified expression currently crossing his flatmate's face.

   "Are you shy, Sherlock? Am I...embarrassin' you?" John covered his mouth with both hands like a child who has said a naughty word. "Sherlock, Shylock, Sherlock has a shy cock..." Sherlock wished he was anywhere other than here in this room. Peering up at the IV bag, John's behavior begun to make sense. John was higher than a kite.

     Abruptly, the addlepated man smacked his hands on the bed and thrust out his bottom lip in full strop. To the detective's chagrin, John looked completely adorable. "I am thirsty, and re-ehhm...hahhh...require more ice. It is your duty as my flatmate to give me some more."

  "Alright, John, just give me a moment. You require more ice. I myself, require a spoon." The detective murmured. Ears steaming hot and face on fire, Sherlock bolted from the room.

   "Oi! Mate! Come back!" John shouted.

    "Just a moment! I'll be back!" Sherlock's voice faded as he fled down the hall to the loo. He had something more important to take care of before seeking out one bloody plastic spoon.

    

 


	4. A Slippery Slope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A miasma of mental meanderings mucking up Sherlock's mission. What. I like alliteration, okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We approach the id with analogies...a cauldron full of seething excitations...only striving to bring about the satisfaction of the the instinctual needs subject to the observance of the pleasure principle." Sigmund Freud

     So.

    John had sucked his fingers. To be precise, his thumb and a forefinger, but the distinction was negligible. John then observed and reported that he "tasted good". Or rather, his _forefinger and thumb_ had tasted good. 

    Sherlock had skipped dinner the previous night, standing vigil in the hospital waiting room. At any rate, his hands had been clean of any sweet or savory substance. Therefore, John was commenting on the taste of his  _skin._

_Interesting._

    Upon procurement of a plastic spoon, he had continues his administration of the ice chips. At this point, John was drowsing in and out a semi-conscious state. No further statements regarding the flavor of his skin were forthcoming. Neither had any perverse, although somewhat thrilling, rhymes.

    It remained an unequivocal fact: John's mental facilities were chemically altered immediately upon regaining consciousness. It was the obvious conclusion, considering the frankly ridiculous dose of morphine coursing through John's system

    After reviewing all of the available data, it was only logical to conclude that John had been off his tits on drugs. John's comments did not reflect his true feelings. John's comments, jarring and titillating as they were, would hopefully not be remembered. It might be a bit not good in 221B if he did.

     Yes. It must be so. Nevertheless, John's hot tongue on his skin, the * _suck suck lick*_ of his mouth had Sherlock wanking off in a public toilet five minutes after John's actions.

    Masturbation, as a rule, did not have a functional role in Sherlock's life. Yes, the sensations of his hand roughly manipulating his penis felt strikingly pleasant. The experience of orgasmic contractions sent his eyes rolling, mouth gaping, and pelvic girdle bucking uncontrollably. Despite the detective's best efforts, high-pitched whimpers escaped from his lips. 

     Nevertheless. Sexual activity distracted him from The Work. Bloody hormones. Bloody, idiotic, moronic, pointless, nonsensical, mindless  _desires._  Sodding sex drive; absurd, daft, shallow, physical _urges._  Urges that were difficult to delete; necessary to avoid.

    John had better forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might include a smattering of onomatopoeia...just 'cause I like the sound of it (nyuck nyuck...snort).


	5. The Frantic Thumping of Sherlock's Heart

    The grease-laden hair obscured the man's eyes, slumped as he was in the hard plastic chair. Lestrade peered at the man. He saw the undeniable outline of Sherlock Holmes through the smudge of the glass partition.

    Greg winced, imagining the guilt  _he_ would feel in Sherlock's situation. But, who the hell knew what Sherlock was feeling? The man remained an enigma. He hid his true nature, whatever it might be, behind a veil made of sarcasm and wit. Sometimes, though, some _thing_ shone on through. Despite his stalwart attempts to deny it, Sherlock radiated with a passion for life. He longed for the chase, for righting the wrongs, for...a short, steady man named John Watson.

   Lestrade had only once left a partner behind in the heat of the chase. Once. Watching Anthony hauled off in an ambulance (moderate flesh wounds from a pavement scuffle, thank God) was bad, very bad. He'd gone home, gotten spectacularly pissed, and had an epic fight with his wife. 

    Unlike his consulting detective, Lestrade learned from his mistakes. The ability to explore the reasoning behind his errors was what had honed his skills as a detective. Lestrade had an excellent reputation as a DI, despite what certain geniuses might say.

    Greg rapped on the glass. Sherlock's head popped up, focusing on the DI. His head flopped once more to his chest before he heaved his long body upward to stand. The Belstaff swirling about his legs, Sherlock thrust through the door and up to Lestrade.

     "If you're expecting me to come in and give a statement, you are sorely mistaken, Graham. I am needed here." Sherlock sniped. He flipped up his collar and attempted to fluff up his bedraggled hair. Nothing doing.

     "It's _Greg,_ and you know it, you git. And when do you ever come in when I ask, anyway." He patted the pocket of his jacket, searching for cigs that weren't there.  _I picked a hell of a week to stop smoking._

"I came to see about John. How is he doing since his surgery?" In desperation, Lestrade thrust both hands in his trouser pockets, fumbling in hopes for a nicotine patch. Nothing doing. "And when is he being released?"

    "Tomorrow morning at the earliest. He requires morphine, and unless I can push Mycroft into sending him home with a vial or two, possibly the day after that."

    "Not bloody likely, yeah?" Lestrade snorted in amusement.

     _"I am clean,_ as you are eminently aware," Sherlock shot daggers from his eyes.

    "Yeah, yeah. I just enjoy riling you up. it's my only pleasure in life. What I really wanted to ask is if John was up to visitors." Greg gave up the search for nicotine and considered picking up a coffee instead.

    "If you must. He was sleeping when I left him, but you can see for yourself."

    "I will, thank you very much. Come back with me?" Lestrade asked, eyebrows raised.

    "No, not now. I need to do some thinking." Sherlock's shoulders dropped and he looked like he'd just lost his dog. "Go now, and leave me alone." 

     "Yes, Your Highness. Whatever you say. I'll text you later today because I _will_ expect a statement from you. Paperwork awaits us all." Lestrade unbuttoned his jacket and yanked it off his body. "It's sodding hot in here! How can you stand it with that," he flipped a hand at the Belstaff, "thing all the time?"

    Sherlock sighed, the put-upon genius forced to deal with the common folk. "Goodbye, Inspector. I have work to do."

    "Yeah, right. I'll try not to let the door hit me on the way out." Lestrade moved around Sherlock and into the surgery. 

    Sherlock sighed. This was not going well  _at all._

 

 


	6. Mind Over Morphine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, mind cleared of morphine, takes a whack at Sherlock for once again being...Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Where ego was, there id will be." - Sigmund Freud

    John rode to the flat in one of the numberless black Mycroftmobiles he abhorred. Despite the indignation of another quasi-kidnapping by Sherlock's brother, John quietly admitted to himself that the car's smooth, even commute circumvented any compounded discomfort. As it was, John was burdened with an ankle throbbing in tandem with his heart.

     What was he to do? More to the point, what was he  _going_ to do for the next three months? The doctor had no need to review the mound of discharge paperwork to ruminate on his fate. The wholesale ruination of his ankle would be obvious to even a layman.

    The equation was simple. One bloody deep pothole plus one pitch-black alley minus one consulting arsehole equals the fracturing of a lateral fibula malleosus and tibia posterior malleosus. Killing two bones with one pothole?  _Hmmm. Perhaps not all the morphine has been metabolized yet._

Two lag screws jammed into the tibia, a seven-screw plate securing the fibula, one knee-high leg brace, two fucking uncomfortable crutches, one protracted personal leave from the surgery, and a partridge in a pear tree.

       _Eight to twelve weeks before weight-bearing activity, three to six months before active limping resolves, increasing potential for long-term sensitivity and arthritis. Many, many months of cock-sucking physical therapy. I'm going to fucking kill him, Mycroft's minions be damned. I'm going to beat Sherlock to death with my cane._

  *******

    John bumbled up the concrete stoop, only to drop the hefty parcel of paperwork and the key to the door. Several curses burst from his lips that would have made his fellow squadies cry.  _This is the only the start of this shite._

The doctor's shoulders hitched up to his ears upon detecting the snick of an opening car door.

     "May I help you with the door, John?" Anthea inquired, sauntering up to his backside. Swooping down to pluck the flat keys from between John's legs (a move that in other circumstances that might have triggered a willful erection), Anthea smiled enigmatically. 

     Blushing madly at his own ineptitude, John simply mumbled his thanks and stood wobbly and weak as she manhandled the door. Both of their head snapped up simultaneously as the thundering report of foot steps crossed above them.

     "John!" Sherlock bellowed, jumping off the stairs three steps from the bottom. "I told you to call when you were ready to go." John's flatmate glared out the door at the idling black car by the kerb. "Mycroft! You accepted a ride home from  _Mycroft?"_

    "Yeah, I did," John barked. "Maybe I wasn't willing to wait for you to come get me when it was  _convenient."_

Sherlock stepped back as if slapped. "You told me to go and stop hovering!" He shot daggers from his eyes at Anthea, who nodded serenely and maneuvered around John's crutches on her return to the car. 

    "Take care, John," she called from the window before the car pulled away. 

    John grunted. Take care. That's all he would be able to do for the next few conceivable months. No dark alley chases, no heart-rending cases to solve with seconds to spare, no criminals to hunt, no surreptitiously conspiratorial smirks behind Anderson as he faffed up collecting key evidence  _again_...not even any bogey-nosed children to examine and mothers to soothe. Only a brace, and a pillow, and bad daytime telly. Fucking hell.

     Sherlock tugged at his bag. "You stay here. I'm going to clear a path through the sitting room."

     "What sodding stupid experiment is clogging the sitting room now? Mrs. Hudson just cleaned and vacuumed! Honestly, Sherlock, if I trip over any more stray body parts..." John shook his head, feeling the first hint of a migraine coming on. The memory of squished fingertips threading up between his toes was enough to make him feel ill.

    Sherlock hemmed a bit, guilt pasted over his face. "I'm sorry, John, I thought I had more time. I'll just go straighten up, shall I?"

    "And leave me standing here on the stoop? Not bloody likely, you wanker! Just go on up and I'll follow. By the time I get my sorry arse up the stairs the flat better be sanitized and hot tea on the table."

    "I...right. yes, indeed," Sherlock murmured, shame-faced. 

    John stared up in amazement. "Shit, Sherlock, if the only thing I have to do is completely shatter my ankle to get you to behave perhaps I should be evaluating what other body parts to destroy."

    Sherlock had the good grace to blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.arlingtonortho.com/conditions/foot-and-ankle/foot-and-ankle-ankle-fracture-surgery/
> 
> http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get/I00005Ms0jbotQH8/s/600/600/prn85492DS.jpg
> 
> P.S I just kind of threw this out there, so any typos and poorly worded sentences may just be present. Be kind.


	7. A Script for Homo-Erotic Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, coping with his first day at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Friendship is an art of keeping distance, whilst love is an art of intimacy." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful." - Sigmund Freud

* * *

_FUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK....this hurts._

John curled around himself, fighting the urge to whimper. He resembled nothing more than a pissed-off and prickly hedgehog, burrowing into its den. The doctor's face shone sweaty and strained, reflecting the light from the windows. Sherlock blanched, deducing John's level of pain. More than a bit not good.  _Bloody hell._

     His flatmate was clearly in agony. John staggered through the door, exhausted after the gauntlet of seventeen steps. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock carried him into the sitting room. He'd placed his blogger on the couch as delicately as if handling spun glass. Nevertheless, John let loose a colorful array of swear words during his drop to the couch.

    Sherlock sat vigil, awash in remorse. John's situation had been of his making. _Why am I so damn impulsive? I expect John to trail at my side, never looking back; I demand his attention, and for what? What benefit has John ever received in his role as my assistant - NO, partner, you moron! None. I've been a right pain in the arse, and oblivious, to boot._

    The doctor shook, face jammed between couch cushion and backrest. Before hunkering down, John had spent several arduous minutes conveying clipped instructions to his consulting arsehole on proper foot elevation. As such, three strategically placed pillows now sat sandwiched between his legs, from groin to toes. It didn't seem to be helping. John shook and his breathing was audible all the way from the kitchen. 

    Sherlock was sorely tempted to contact one of his old suppliers.  _I've spiked his drinks before..._ But no. Out of the question. John was already furious. Another surreptitious drugging and John might never forgive him. No. Best to wait until the hour ended and bring him the next dose of meds.  _Of course, I could offer..._

 The detective cringed as the doctor turned his head and shot him the fish eye. "John? What is it? Do you need something?" Sherlock half-pushed off the arms of his chair, ready to spring into action. 

"Yeah. I need you to stop sitting shivah, or shall just I cover the mirrors?" John sniped in misery. "I'm not dead yet. Just...go do something. Go piss off Lestrade, or blow up the kitchen. Please," he groaned. "I've been here before. I can handle the pain. You, on the other hand, are becoming unbearable."

    If Sherlock hadn't felt so culpable he would have been offended. "I should be here. In case you need mehhh...something."

    "I still have my phone. I'm assuming that you still have yours?"

    "Obviously," Sherlock replied, somehow missing the sarcasm. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

     "I'm suggesting that you get your guilty arse out of the flat. You didn't cause this," John gestured to his leg, "and you know it. It was _dark."_

     "But where would I go?" Sherlock blustered. "I need to be here, to take care of you!"

     Crimson drew up from the base of John's neck up to the tips of each ear. "That's very...generous of you. But, hardly necessary. Go bother Lestrade for some cold cases, if you must. Or bug Molly. I'm sure she's saved some lovely eyeballs or a lung just for you. Maybe a bladder, _huzzah!_ Bring whatever you must back here. If you must. But please...just let me sleep."

     Sherlock sat frozen, mind buzzing with conflicting signals. If he left, he wouldn't have to keep feel guilty. If he left, he would feel even worse.

     "Tell you what," John temporized, gritting his teeth (subtly, he hoped). "Bring me two Oxycodone and an ice pack. What I need now is to elevate my ankle and sleep." Shooting what he hoped was a wry smile at his friend, John sealed the deal with "You've already done your bit with the ankle. But, I can't sleep with you boring a hole in the back of my neck. Just go. I'll be fine."

     "Uhhh...but of course. Whatever you think that will help," Sherlock fumbled, checking his pocket for his phone. "I'll just pop down to Bart's and see what Molly has cooking. Uhm...figuratively speaking, of course." He checked his watch. "I should be back in two hours, at the latest, I swear."

     "Oh, I believe you," John managed not to snicker. "I'll be fine. I  _am_ a doctor, you know."

     "Yes....quite. But of course. If you should need anything - "

     "I'll shoot you a text. Yeah. I got it," John moaned and threw his head back. "First the meds, then the ice. And then,  _go._ "

 

      **********

 

      John hadn't been kidding when he'd said that Sherlock couldn't help. He  _had_ been here before. Nothing helped. Time and patience, that was all.Time and patience. _He_ had the time, but Sherlock had issues with patience.

      _The man can't even wait for bread to toast. I swear_ _, I would have run screaming into the streets if he'd sat and stared at me with those too-pale eyes any longer._

     The doctor only hoped that if Sherlock took any new cases during his hiatus he remembered to collect the client's cheque. The detective got lost in the mystery of the case, most often completely forgetting the notion of bills to be paid, food to be purchased, etc.

    Lord knows how the man existed before he came along. Well, with Mycroft's unwanted assistance, John knew. Exhausted, the doctor sighed.  _And now, it is all up to me._

The oxycodone did its job, just not for long. John managed to snag a short nap before the throbbing of his ankle returned. The pain wrestled him back to awareness. Not for the first time (since his acquaintance with Sherlock) John considered the merits of illegal narcotics.

     _I'm too fucking old for this shite._

    His bladder was calling. Just peachy. Manhandling his leg to the floor, John clutched his crutches. "One the count of three. One...two... ** _THREE!!!_** " He fought to maintain his composure, but to what ends? Mrs. Hudson had gone to the countryside. Sherlock was bothering Molly at Bart's. 

    "Fucking, fucking...bloody  _Christ on a cracker!"_ A twinge of guilt nagged at John, born and raised Roman Catholic. Whatever. So he was destined for Hell. At least that's what his mother had said. "Bloody, buggering, FUCK!" And...John was up.

    How foolish to not have pushed aside the coffee table. Edging sideways on crutches felt ridiculous...and perilous. However, shedding blood, sweat, and tears - okay, the bit about blood was conjecture, John slowly gimped to the bathroom.

    Standing up for a piss wasn't happening; not unless he didn't mind tipping back on his arse. No. He'd be reduced to taking a piss sitting down, just like a two-year-old child.  _Lovely. Spectacular. Fucking, fucking fuck-eh-tee fuck._

John quickly did his business, shaking off the last yellowish drop with typical military efficiency. He lingered, though, imagining the coming struggle involved simply standing up to hitch up his denims. His much-maligned, favorite pair of denims, that was.

     Before finishing up with the discharge paperwork, a soft-spoken nurse had split the left trouser leg up to the thigh. John watched, dismayed as her practiced hands ran stainless steel surgical scissors along the seam. The woman, prematurely greying hair bobbing over her eyes with the effort, flashed him a genuinely sympathetic smile. 

   (Privately, she'd speculated that this man, rumpled and quite wrinkled himself, perhaps didn't own many clothes. She'd already surveyed the state of his fatigued woolen jumper. These denims, too, were faded and fraying; a small hole worming through the right knee. Unfortunately for John, she'd been right. His wardrobe desperately needed refreshing, if Sherlock would only take the damn cheque!)

     John flushed, lifting up just enough to yank up his pants and flip down the lid. Exhausted, he planted his arse back down on the loo. John immediately grimaced. The sensation of ice-cold hard plastic pressing up on his bits was just. The last. Straw.  _Fuck a duck. Did Sherlock forget to post the gas bill again? Clueless git. It's like a bloody freezer in here!_

     Deciding to ignore the arctic chill, (no sense in wasting precious energy on things he couldn't control...ergo, wanker flatmates) John grunted as he eyeballed his set-up.

    He brooded, ruminating over the memory of the nurse. He thought of Marjorie - or Mallorie, narcotics have a funny way of screwing with brain cells, gently easing his jeans over the bulk of the boot. She'd reached forward to lift his trous flush to his groin. John, desperate to avoid any more mortification than absolutely necessary, hooked his thumbs though the belt loops and beat her to the punch. Hands shaking, his fingers flew over his flies. The last dose of morphine somewhat complicated the procedure, but John regained his dignity in the end.

     Sherlock had focused on the proceedings, and the doctor found himself fighting off the burgeoning blush on his cheeks. Considering Sherlock's utter disregard for personal boundaries, John understood early on in their relationship that the detective viewed John as his personal experiment in psychology.  _Okay, Freud..._ John had thought.  _Stop fucking around, and hand me my jacket._

     Finally, Mallorie - or Marjorie, had secured the long, flapping cuffs with a thick roll of beige spandex wrap. She'd even sunk the toothed metal clasps on both ends, finishing with a flourish and a tiny "Ta-da...". John, ever obliging, raised up his hands to applaud. But now...no nurse, and six to eight weeks of this boot. He couldn't afford to cut up all his trousers. Marjorie _(Malljorie?)_ had bid him good luck at the hospital exit. Whatever solution for clothing John came up with now, he'd have to do it all on his own.

 _I'd shoot myself before letting Sherlock tie **me** up with spandex. Wait. What? I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Bloody fuck. I didn't think that it sounded so mean. JESUS MARY JOSEPH._  John addressed himself sternly.  _What is wrong with you, man?_

_Too much pain, and not enough drugs. That's the problem in a nutshell._

_What would Sherlock do?*_

_Well...he is an absolute wanker._

_What would Sherlock do? He'd call on the body's natural endorphins. And how would Sherlock do this? By wanking, of course._

_Obvious. Oh, do keep up, John._

_Oh, John..._

_Do keep up._

      

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In America, the phrase "What would Jesus do?" has been pandered to the masses in the form of bumper stickers (on cars), silicone bracelets, t-shirts, dog tags, and the like. Otherwise written as WWJD, for the purposes of my narrative, WWSD reads "What would Sherlock do?" In my opinion, a much smarter question. As for Jesus, who knows?


	8. Wanking 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to tap his past heterosexual history for purposes of "physical therapy", yet finds himself less than inspired. Bachelor John Watson, a man who is unequivocally "not gay" finds he suddenly needs something more.
> 
> It's short, people. I work a night shift (NOC) today, so gotta catch a few winks. I'm planning on finishing this up tonight. P.S. I didn't spend much time proof-reading this, so... sorry for any awkward mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thinking is an experimental dealing with small quantities of energy...just as a general moves his miniature figures over a map before setting his troops in action." - Sigmund Freud

     

   John swore under his breath. He might as well give it a go, because the half-arsed analgesics weren't cutting it. He'd already resorted to doubling each dose. Receiving both too few and too-weak of strength from the hospital reeked of Mycroft's handiwork, rather than NHS mismanaging meds.

    There was no question, really. Much better to screw over the inconsequential flatmate than to tempt the addictive younger brother. As Sherlock's best friend, said flatmate sympathized. As a man in a shitload of agony, said flatmate cursed Mycroft to the ninth circle of Hell and beyond.

    _Well, then. Might as well give it a go._

   John knew from vast experience that for him, rubbing one off wasn't as easy as giving a few halfhearted tugs. Snagging a questionably clean white hand towel which draped over the tub, John wedged it under his arse to cozy up his nippy bits. _Step One in Project Pull-Off...get comfy and warm._

 _Step Two._ John reached down to palm his hibernating appendage, curled up tight in defence of the cold. He rubbed his cock gently and sighed. Moments later, John's head tilted toward his right shoulder, sleepy cobalt eyes lowering to half-mast. Exhausted, yet he couldn't relax.

_Feels good...feels good...very nice..._

_Bloody hell, this isn't working. My knob's turned into a numpty._

    Whilst his ministrations felt lovely, post-surgical torment danced a vicious two-step across his libido. With steel-toed combat boots. In double time. For Salvo Stroke It to succeed, it'd be essential to do more than touch.

   John slipped his other hand under his vest to pinch at ice-tipped nipples. The little nubs were already hard due thanks to the sub-arctic chill, slightly numb.  _Fucking hell._      

    He gazed down at Sherlock's sky blue dressing gown, thoughtlessly shoved under the sink. _I should be grateful that Sherlock is such an incredible slob._   _Fucking w_ _anker._ Availing one bulky crutch, John fished the bundle closer and shook it out. Would it be crossing some secret, unspoken line if he donned it?

    A strong whiff of Sherlock's shampoo and something more essentially "Sherlock" flooded the doctor's nostrils. Maybe. Maybe this crossed a line. Then again, maybe not. Sherlock tended to be "Mr. Handsy" with his flatmate; no personal boundaries in evidence. Which was odd, considering. Whatever. John threw it over his shoulders and continued Project Pud Pull.

    _Better. Much better_. The soothing warmth (essence) of (Sherlock's) silky fabric permitted John to forget the temperature and focus on his cock. His fingers wrapped around it's increasing length, but he still needed more. John slipped his hand inside his pants to touch skin-to-skin. _Better. Much better_. But still not enough.

    _Okeee-dokeee...think of breasts. Beautiful, rosy-tipped breasts. Breasts to stuff my face into, to lick and suck, and tease._ A soft grunt emerged from his throat.  _A tempting arse, round and full, fistfuls of softness with which I can grab, pulling in hard for a fuck. A slick, hot hole for me to pound into...God, so hot, so tight..._

_Sherlock has a tight arse. No! No no no no no. What the hell._

_Focus._

John pumped his cock faster. It was fully erect now, red-tipped and stiff. His head dropped to his chest in relief, pleasure and excitement drawing his mind away from the throb of his ankle.

     The beige spandex wrapping caught his eye, wound tight around his split jeans. How in God's name did he think that he would manage this without Sherlock's help? Not today, at least. His less-than-delicious body odor competed with the enticement of the gown's. _I need a fucking shower. I can't take a fucking shower. I'll have to make do with a wash-up in the sink._

    _Or, a sponge bath. Fucking A. Absolutely not. I'm not a bloody invalid (anymore)._

Without his noticing, John's hand slowed down to a crawl. His fist then stopped completely, but still clutched his cock; during which it had slumped to half-mast.

     A vision of leaning over the cracked porcelain lip, fighting to maintain his balance with soap-slick fingers and slippery elbows. Wobbling on his right leg (which was already achy, fucking hell), left leg hovering above the ceramic tile at an awkward 45-degree angle.

    He saw himself drop the flannel, where it piled on the floor. He reached down to snag it. He fell flat on his arse. The crutches, perversely shooting in opposite directions, landed far beyond the reach of his fingers. _Yeah, I'll pass on that, thank you very much._ _..I'll fucking end up in traction._

 John Watson, reduced to a sponge bath. If needs must. However. How the hell was he to manage a bowl full of water, a sponge, a towel, some soap, aluminium crutches, and actually gimp around the flat? In addition, where in God's name would he go? Where was there space to wash up? His room was a no-go. The kitchen?  _Hell, no._  

   The doctor's mind bombarded him with a painfully detailed vision. He sat bare-arsed on a wooden chair, back flush to the kitchen table. Soggy towel, wedged under his arse; soapy water dripping down between widely spread thighs. Cheap shampoo, scalding his eyes, and no clean source of water to soothe them.

    And then as if on cue, Sherlock bursting into the flat with scarf trailing behind, pausing only to bellow, "John! We have a case!" His flatmate would freeze then, examining John with those pale, piercing eyes. Sherlock, eyeing him as if John was a rare, toxic mould specimen primed for his latest experiment.

     "John," he'd huff, head tilted in bewilderment. "Why are you naked and wet in the kitchen? You'll contaminate my work space. Also, were you aware that you're sitting less than an arm's length away from a viable sample of Anthrax?"

     _Bloody hell._

   

 

    


	9. Oh, What a Tangled Web We Weave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate for pain relief, John tries to give wanking another go. Much to the author's surprise, however, instead of dreaming up a deliciously detailed sexual fantasy and tossing one off, John end up crying on the floor.
> 
> Sorry. Really, I am. 
> 
> Also, I cleaned up the last chapter. Hopefully, it is worth giving it another run-through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worse, returned." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> I don't know what the hell just happened. This was supposed to be a short and lighthearted story about two men who bonk.

_Okay. Okay. Not working...try something else._

    In lieu of resuming his wank, John huddled on the toilet in a state of profound misery. The flat existed as a perfect vacuum, void of energy and sound; and it was completely his fault.  He'd sent Sherlock scuttling out of the flat for no other reason than pride. The ex-soldier's sense of comportment had shriveled to nil the second he'd sprawled on his arse...in the muck...in the dark...in a hole. Ridiculous.  _Now I'm alone and afraid._

 _Afraid?_  John snorted. _Where the bloody hell did that come from? There's no reason to be afraid; I've done this before. I got rid of the cane, and I'll do it again._  The veteran straightened his spine, an unconscious attempt at assuming parade rest.  _I don't need Sherlock here to babysit. I'm fine, I am fine, I am fine._

 _I'm afraid._ He glumly contemplated his ankle.  _This is no psychosomatic limp. This is real, this is bad, and I am too old to spring back. Sherlock can't fix this with a case._

 _ **Enough.**_   _There's nothing to be gained by whingeing. Listen, you!_ He though sternly. _You can't fix your leg. But. You can do something here, something now. Time to wank._

John commenced with a leisurely brush of his hand; quietly pleased to feel his penis perk up.  _Mmmmm. Nice. Good._ It pulsed twice in his fist. John took this as a sign of encouragement.  _Back to breasts._ Within the span of three minutes, however, he accepted that it just wasn't happening. He'd have to move in another direction. No orgasm, no endorphins. 

_And I'm dyyyyyyyiiiiiinnnnggggggg..._

    On to alcohol, the poor man's weapon of choice. They had drunk all the wine, but the good whisky that Greg brought for Christmas still stood, collecting dust above the fridge. John had shoved it in a microscopic niche between three encrusted-with-some-lethal-substance erlenmyer flasks and six sticky glass beakers.

   If he gave the commercial-grade fish slice* a go ("It's for an experiment, John!"), a tool ordinarily wielded to scrape egg off the burners...he just might manage to snag it. John ordered a full company retreat. Pulling his hand out of his pants, he adjusted his poor penis and sighed. Back to business.

   Pulling up on one crutch, John precariously pulled up his pants. Through dint of will, and judiciously squatting so his thighs held his jeans, John jimmied them up over his hips. He fastened them awkwardly whilst tottering on one leg. It took far more time than he was comfortable with to button his flies. _Just o_ _ne more fucking thing to slow me down._

The doctor jammed the second crutch under his arm. He paused after taking one step. A colorful array of words exploded from his mouth, none of them suitable for polite conversation. The spandex wrap's upper metal clasp dangled precariously, hanging from two of its four toothy tines. As if aware of an audience, the damned bloody clasp plunged to the floor with a somersault triple twist and bounced under the bath. Wide, stretchy beige ribbon sprang loose and slowly unwound off his leg. Sentiments spilled with a spray of fine spittle that would drive even the devil to tears. 

    It was too much. John slid down to the floor.

   ****************

    John struggled to hold in his tears, but they spilled all the same. He despised feeling helpless. Five years ago the veteran channeled his overwhelming fury into fuel and tapped it to endure the horrors of healing. However, John had the benefit of regulated pain management. He'd received a therapeutic massage twice per week. No one could claim the UK pampered its military, but he'd been part of a whole; had a purpose...played a role. 

    John had not been abandoned or left behind. Snuffling, John left go. Hard, barking sobs shook his chest. Snot ran streaming from his nose to his mouth, but the doctor didn't care.  _Nothing but a damp squib. One little setback, and I'm squalling like a baby - on a filthy loo floor of all things. Get yourself together, man!_

John was no longer afraid. He was terrified. This fit of tears, the sense of great loss...it made no sense. Sherlock chastened John in his mind. "Think! John, you're not being logical. This...this business of crying is ridiculous. You've given into sentiment, and you know what I think about  _sentiment._ "

    "I'm sorry, I know!" John howls, facing his imaginary best friend. "But I hurt, and this fucking ankle is going to take so much time, and energy, and time - and I hurt! You're going to leave me behind, Sherlock. Every day you're going to walk out that door. I'm going to waste away in this fucking flat while you have adventures, and solve cases as easy as pie all by yourself. Then one day, Sherlock, one day you'll come prancing through our door it'll hit you, _just like that._ " Imaginary John snaps his fingers. "I'll limp over with a fresh cuppa, and you'll see that I really don't have a significant role in your life other than to bring you hot tea; and I'm boring, and old, and a gimp. I'll just be one more idiot, slowing you down."

     "Perhaps you're right," Sherlock muses, running both thumbs over the edge of his collar. "I'm five years younger, after all, and a thousand times more intelligent. Hell, I'm a hottie, to boot. Sod off, John, I don't need you." 

     The doctor batted at the roll of loo paper, and rubbed the entire roll across his face. Saline and snot simply smeared. John gave it up as a loss, and threw the paper as hard as he could toward the closed bathroom door.

     "Jesus Christ, I'm pathetic!" John bellowed around tightly gritted teeth. And, of course, as these things go, this was the precise moment that Sherlock burst into the room.

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> British term for spatula (which makes so much more sense). ;p


	10. All the King's Horses and All the King's Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock inadvertently gives John a hand (elbow).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Words have a magical power. They can bring either the greatest happiness or deepest despair...Words are capable of arousing the strongest emotions and prompting all of men's actions." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "We are what we are because of what we have been." Sigmund Freud

    The roll of toilet paper smacked Sherlock square in the nose. A muffled curse sprang from his lips in response. "John!" he cried, spying his friend on the floor. "Christ, did you re-injure your ankle?" He fell to his knees besides John, frantically performing a full-body. 

    "No, thanks for asking," John muttered glumly. "You know I have rows with inanimate objects." He gestured to the loosened beige bandage. "The damn clasp fell off and slid under the tub." Dropping his head to his chest, the doctor groaned. "Between that, and the pain, and these sodding crutches...I fell into a bit of a snit."

   Sherlock didn't immediately answer, arm jammed under the legs of the tub, head pressed to the side. "Ah ha!" he crowed. "Found it."

   The detective pushed himself back upright, and quietly considered his friend. Voice bland, Sherlock murmured "Are you willing to accept my help now?" He held up the clasp in his pale, plate-sized palm. It lay still, looking innocuous and innocent...John knew better. This little fucker'd been sent straight up from the fiery depths of hell.

   "Christ, do I have a choice?" John moaned. "No, here," he said softly, "I didn't mean to sound cross." He reached a shaking hand out to Sherlock and sighed. Clumsily tweaking the infernal thing up, he inspected it between finger and thumb. John realized that his anger was irrational...but it felt as if the whole world was mocking him. "I'm not frustrated with you," John temporized, "it's just - ."

   "That you're injured and hurting."

   "Yeah...that. I'd hoped that my long days of limping were over." He scanned Sherlock's face without turning his head. John's colorless lashes concealed the deep blue of his eyes. "I'm sorry to say that I'm not going to be much use to you for the next several months, at the least."

   "I think that this is the least of my worries," Sherlock snorted derisively. The guilt was making him cranky.

   "Yeah?" John sneered, slightly affronted. "I know that I'm not of much use at the best of times, but I would think - ."

   "What?" the detective's eyebrows rose in consternation. "That's a ludicrous statement. You misunderstand what I mean."

   "Which is?" John said, grimacing as he straightened out both legs. "You know what? Never mind. We can have this discussion some other time. Right now, I just want to get off the damn floor of the loo. Move over. I can do this myself." Sherlock got to his feet and backed to the sink.

    Sherlock wanted to explain, but John simply blocked him out. He already knew what Sherlock thought of his  _assistant._  ("Oh, do keep up, John...We're losing him, John...don't be an _idiot_ , John") The doctor didn't need a reminder that for the most part, his presence was completely superfluous. Sherlock was a Shakespearean sonnet. John was the full stop of a sentence.

    From day one, John saw that Sherlock was brilliant. After solving Andrew West's murder (but before being strapped to a lethal Semtex vest), a metaphor arose in John's mind to describe the detective's rare gift.

    It was like...straining the dunes of the vast Gobi desert. Inferior people (himself included) only saw sand, dust, and grit. Sherlock, however, unearthed vast hordes of treasure; parsing each minute grain to seek a shattered Ming vase. And, it didn't stop there. The detective gathered each sliver, and repaired it to its original beauty.

    Sherlock was more than an apt man, he was needed, desired. What did John himself do? He trailed behind this (gorgeous) genius with a cheap, stupid notebook, jotting down facts that Sherlock already knew. John's chance at greatness had come during the war, and he'd blown it. His body felt broken and...

    _Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you bloody wanker! Now get off the damn floor and get on with it. Christ, you've gotten soft. You know you have a place in his life. Otherwise, he wouldn't tolerate your presence,_ John berated himself. Sherlock's eyes sharpened on John's face in hopes of deducing his thoughts.

    Face suddenly determined, John yanked the crutches closer. He adjusted them whereby the rubber bottoms rested a bit behind his hips. Sherlock grunted, comprehending the plan. Grasping the tubing close to the handholds, he then set them at 45-degree angles with the tips on the floor. Expelling a truly primordial grunt, John fought to push up to his right foot. Twenty seconds of red-faced puffing later, John dropped back down hard on his arse. "Bloody hell!" 

   Sherlock reached down with his lanky arms, but then pulled back, floundering with indecision. "Uhm, should I help you now or leave you alone?"

   John gaped up at his flatmate. Sherlock towered over him, a full six feet of artless detective. His friend's face radiated a confused jumble of regret, dejection, and panic - emotions John had never witnessed him expressing before.

     The doctor continued to stare at his friend. Sherlock's limbs shot forward, then aft, as if he was engaged in a fistfight. Eyeing John sideways, the detective blustered "Obviously, you're perfectly capable, John. It's just ..."

   Tiredly, John sighed, dropping both crutches with a clank. Rubbing his face to avoid making eye contact, John groaned. Eventually pinching the bridge of his nose, John mumbled assent. Sherlock nodded. John's fallback position when at the end of his rope was fingers to nose and acceptance of help.

   "Look. I've been a right git today. I'm sorry." John sighed again, heavier this time. He attempted a one-sided grin. "Yeah, you wanker. Stop dancing around and give me a hand."

   Sherlock smiled, and maneuvered behind him. Space was tight...the en suite was cramped as it was. "It's a good thing you're such a skinny git!" John grunted as Sherlock hoisted him to standing. The room swam for a few seconds, dark specks obscuring his vision. John felt himself swaying from a one-two punch of exhaustion and lack of fluids. Combine these two conditions with a sudden change in elevation, and a quick drop in blood pressure results. He should have anticipated this physical response, but was simply too out-of-sorts.

   "John!" Sherlock bellowed in alarm. The detective shoved his arms around John's torso and yanked the man backwards to brace against his chest. "What's going on? Why is this happening?"

    John's head bobbed about mindlessly for a minute before regaining his bearing. "Easy does it, Sherlock. I stood up too fast. I'm a little dehydrated, is all." John felt the  _whump **thump**_ of his friend's heart against his back. Sherlock was panicking, and John didn't know why. "I'm okay," he said mildly, patting Sherlock's arm with his hand. "Just give me a mo'."

   "Alright, fine...good. Shall I let go, then?" Sherlock marginally loosened his bear hug, and John immediately slumped down. "I take it that's a no."

   "Yeah," John mumbled as he struggled to recover his footing. "I'm really sorry about this, Sherlock. You shouldn't have to play nurse." _All t_ _hanks to_   _my_ _fucking trick leg. Great time to manifest a little of the old psychosomatic limp, yeah? Fucking hell._ "It seems that my right leg is acting up at the moment. Just...just hang on, I'll be fine."

   "Like hell you are, John," Sherlock snapped. He leaned back, and hefted John up in his arms. "Just hang on, I'll get you out." Cautiously stepping over the mess on the floor, Sherlock hefted John out to the hall.

   "Oi!" John shouted. "Put me down!  _Sherlock!"_ The doctor felt his blood pressure rise.  _Good. I won't faint before I beat him to death._

As usual, Sherlock did exactly as he wanted and none of what was asked. Finagling John's compact form in the narrow space, he scooped John up in his arms. John let loose a vigorous string of profanity, face reddening in humiliation. Sherlock tuned out the verbal assault. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard John's tirades hundreds of times before. 

    "Tut tut, John," he huffed. "No sense in throwing a wobbly." John might be shorter but they weighed roughly the same stone. This endeavor was increasingly perilous. Sherlock conveyed the struggling doctor up and over the coffee table whilst his lean arms trembled with effort. "John, please, just a moment," he wheezed. John commenced to flop like a fish out of water in his eagerness to escape Sherlock's grasp. 

     Losing the battle, Sherlock released John atop the cushions. His flatmate bounced back up with an _ooph!_  "Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell was that?" John glowered menacingly, mad at the world in general; clearly at the end of his wits. Too late, the doctor caught movement from the corner of his eye. John turned to see Sherlock fighting a one-sided battle with gravity. Pitching downward, the detective yelped as his long, bony shins caught the table. Trapped by inertia, Sherlock continued straight forward.

   John flinched, caught in the memory of a uni physics elective...v=d/t. This was not going to end well. Sherlock was going to crash on his arse. _Sherlock's going to crash on MY arse._

   The detective twisted, an instinctive measure to land on his back. As these things do happen, however, the detective's momentum _(velocity)_ accelerated too rapidly and razor-sharp elbow met John's tender gut _(displacement over time)._ John howled helplessly in pain.

 

   

    

 

 

   


	11. Pop Goes the Weasel, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pratfalls when prats fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "From error to error, one discovers the entire truth." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "The only shame in masturbation is the shame of not doing it well." - Sigmund Freud

    Sherlock's panic was making this worse. Yes, John decided, repeatedly elbowing one's  _already injured_ flatmate exponentially heightened discomfort. The detective's frantic thrashing had done little more than increase John's bruise count. "Oi! Sherlock!" He bellowed. "Slow down before you poke out an eye!"

    Long, pointy limbs poised in terror as John's voice cut through. "Alright. Good," John wheezed breathlessly. "Now that's better. Slowly..." he gritted between clenched teeth, " _slowly_ get the fuck off my lap."

    The detective cautiously pulled in his elbows and tipped of the couch in one go. "John," Sherlock whispered, "John, I can't...I'm so very so - ."

    "Yeah, no worries, mate. Just go," John panted with his newly free diaphragm. "Please. Just go," he flapped a hand at the kitchen, "blow something up. Or burn down the flat. It will make you feel better, I swear."

    "I...can I make you some tea?" Sherlock whinged, dragging the coffee table far, far away from his flatmate. The damn chunk of wood was lucky he hadn't pitched it out of the window; after all, there was precedent. "Or some toast?"

    The detective waited with out-of-character humility for an answer whilst watching John's pointless attempt to get comfortable. The doctor beat the tired cushions with ruthless abandon, irritated now beyond reason. With his harsh thrashings, the split in John's jeans yawned wide open. A triangle of golden brown thigh peeked through. This patent exposing of thigh recalled the taunting of (gay) male strippers. Sherlock shook his head in self-disgust, appalled at associating those images with John. He had some serious deleting to do.

   "Ahh..." Sherlock "Perhaps some new... trousers?"

   The doctor's head popped up from his pounding, face and ears blazing bright red. "Hehhhh...right. These sodding things are headed straight for the bin, I'll have you know. Yeah, maybe some shorts for the moment."

   Having been given a mission, Sherlock nodded and quickly ascended the stairs. John mentally traced his friend's movements as he crashed through John's ancient wardrobe. Good _thing I don't have a bloody sock index to disturb._ A large thunk combined with a curse startled John from his musings.

 _Ahhh...must have found that trick drawer._ More banging and bad-mouthing of innocent furniture ensued.  _Honestly, man. One lousy pair of shorts. How difficult can that be to find?_ _He'd better straighten up once he's done or I'll toss all his posh socks out the window._   

    _Bloody shorts._  The doctor suddenly blanched, thinking about the chain of events he'd set in motion. New clothes meant changing. Changing meant removing his jeans. Unless he wanted a repeat performance of the loo he might need a bit of assistance.  _Bloody hell...bloody shorts. Bloody_ _leg._

  At some point in the last few months, John found himself regarding his friend in a way that was less than platonic, and Sherlock's beauty wasn't even the half of it. The detective's brilliance and wit; the rapid-fire skills of deduction - this all set John's to heart racing and his loins to aching. The hell of it was, John Watson was simply, unequivicably, since-the-day-he-was-born, 100% NOT GAY. Nope, not gay. Not even a little.

  John's feelings had muddied the waters. The doctor no longer knew who he was. Sherlock, (at least he was the last time John had picked splinters out of his arse), was a man; not a woman, a _man._  And, irregardless, relationships were 100% NOT HIS AREA.      

   Sherlock did not dally with sentiments in general, let alone  _desire,_ or  _passion,_ or...love. Too pedestrian, useless, and boring. Cold, hard reason directed Sherlock's world view. Anything more would be frivolous. So, here in this moment, one change of clothes pending, John panicked. What if his body betrayed him?

   John had to to squash his libido and tamp down his lust. Their one-of-a-kind friendship was too precious to lose. Sherlock was all that John had in this world, and if he mucked their friendship up over something as ridiculous as emotion... _Stop this, now._

    Sherlock's large feet thundered down wooden stairs, interrupting John's reverie. He held two pair of track shorts and ragged (but stretchy) pajama bottoms. The doctor pointed at the pajamas. Sherlock tossed them over, and they both looked away.  _Awkward..._

   "Yeah," John blurted in too loud a volume, "right."

    * _ahem*_  

  "Listen, Sherlock, I'm going to give it a go by myself" John jiggled the pajamas with a smirk, trying to keep the mood light. "Can you pour me a whiskey whilst I change?"

    The detective's face relaxed in relief, which quieted John's dread. There would be no more wrestling with libidos; return to the safe status quo. John started, however, as Sherlock's (luscious) mouth formed an unhappy moue. "Actually, John, I used it all up during an experiment. I'm afraid that the flat is quite absent of alcohol - unless isopropyl fits the bill."

    "Eh, no," John snorted. "I'm not that desperate - yet. If you still want to help, you can run to the market. Or Tesco. I need at least two reusable ice packs, and a  _large_ quantity of whisky, or bourbon, or scotch. I'm not really picky at this point. Also, if they have one," he cleared his throat miserably, "a small plastic stool."

     John winced as he said this. He needed a stool for his wash-up so he could squat in the tub like an - _fuck._   _Bloody hell. So I can squat in the bath like an invalid._

     "What - ah. But of course," Sherlock said, rummaging blithely in his trousers for his wallet. "You can count on me." He swept into the Belstaff with a flourish and shot out the door. 

     "And Sherlock... _SHERLOCK..._ " John bawled, "don't forget milk!" His flatmate gave no reply, and John groaned.  _Bugger that._

 The flat sat oddly still after the cock up with the couch. John snorted, partially amused but for the most part shook up. Too much had happened in too short a time for him to process. And, now that his git of a flatmate was off running fool's errands (himself being said fool), the pain erupted in spades. He was back to square one until provisions arrived.

    Irregardless of the detective's fortitude, John knew that something was sure to distract him. It was anyone's guess what time he returned and most likely, sans the damn milk. 

     In vain, John struggled to remove his jeans. _This is like pushing my bum through an inner tube._  He only had one foot for leverage, and frankly the insult to injury on his solar plexus made the entire operation too painful. Besides, the jostling had awakened his bladder. _Fucking hell, you middle aged git,_ John chastised.

    Shoving the shorts in his waistband, John returned to the loo. The hateful, hateful, _hateful_ crutch _es_  were becoming increasingly easy to use, rather like an extension of his body. Good for mobility, bad for his psyche.

    In fact, John amazed himself with his quick ability to adapt. The shoulder injury had been far more debilitating. Encouraging, that. He was keen to return to the surgery, mind-numbing claptrap or not. Wrangling snotty toddlers beat mouldering in the flat for months. Also...the money. He needed the money. Beans on toast doesn't cut it.

    Business attended to, John sat back down on the lid with one less issue to deal with. Unfortunately, his left ankle throbbed in tandem with his heart; intolerable torment and no deliverence for the foreseeable future.

     _The wanker's probably badgering Molly for fifteen left ears, or some such nonsense._  John lived with a strong sense of his place in Sherlock's personal hierarchy of need; somewhere between "Go buy more milk" and "You're slowing us down".

   What to do.

         

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this sucks. I am really tired.
> 
> Also, apologies for the overuse of italics, ellipses, and hyphens.


	12. The Monkey Said it All Was in Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, what the hell. This was supposed to be smut, but my mind keeps kicking John's arse. It will get there, I swear. 
> 
> I know that the rhyme used for the this and the last chapter are in reverse order, but I had this vision of Sherlock (said weasel/otter-thingie) popping up off of John's lap. So, there.
> 
> Also, I accidentally posted this before this was ready so I cut the chapter in half and and am working on the part that still needed editing.

      _Ohhhh...is she fit. What an arse, Christ! I could sink my teeth into it and never let go. And fuck, she's so tight. So beautiful, so sexy. Eyes like the ocean in the noonday sun...yeah, that's good. That's so good, feels so good. I'm tangling my hands in those silky brown curls; drawing in close to taste those plush, perfect lips..._

   Hand flying, John wanked as if his life depended on it, or at least the foreseeable future. He reveled in the slight cessation of pain, panting harder as his balls closed in on his cock. This was it - this was going to work, he just knew it. The fantasy female John envisioned (whom he was presently fucking balls-deep) incorporated some unusual new features. Traditionally a "tiny built blonde/sky blue eyes" kind of bloke, this willowy temptress had translucent cyan eyes and burnished copper-brown hair. Her mental visage shot sparks of pleasure straight to his hot, throbbing cock. John's free hand tensed unconsciously, illusory locks held taut in his grasp as he squeezed.

   Abruptly, the doctor's muscles flagged. He lolled backwards uncontrollably, body spent after such intense use. John's back smacked hard against the tank, ceasing his body's momentum. Unfortunately, John's head kept on rolling. Silver-blond hair whipped the back of his neck, and he groaned as he looked at the ceiling.  _Christ in heaven, just let me come already!_

   Eventually, John yanked himself back upright, whereby his chin promptly flopped down to his chest. Too far gone to register any fresh pain, the doctor set his focus on simply staying upright. John seesawed, but held his position until movement caught his attention. Gasping in wonder, the doctor peered upwards and goggled at the myriad of whirling black dots filling the room. They were like soft, sooty snowflakes adrift in the air. John was tempted to reach out and touch one, but reconsidered.  _I must be stuck in a dream. More like a nightmare, really, considering..._

   Now the walls sank inward, and John felt as if the whole room was melting. The doctor cursed his landlady for her ridiculously garish taste in wallpaper. The brown and green striping undulated wildly, akin to ocean waves raging during a tempest. John's disorientation mounted, and he struggled to maintain full awareness. The doctor in him perked up, quickly slapping that berk Wanker John in the face. He was precariously close to passing out, the second time in one day. Not good. Not good at all.

_Damn it, just breathe out, one... two... three... and in, one... two... three. I need to get something to drink and some food in my gut. Otherwise Sherlock might - no. No more playing princess to his fucking Prince Charming. Yeah...Sherlock is never carrying me again, at least not in this lifetime._

The lighting petered out, the black spots morphing into iridescent pinpricks of light.  _Come on, damn it. I am not admitting to Sherlock that a wank laid me flat. He'll never let me hear the end of it._

After a bit of rough rasping and gasping for air, the stripes settled down and the lighting resumed. Acceptable blood/oxygen levels restored, John took the time to sequester his manly bits. _Poor cock. Wanked twice without an orgasm._ He patted it consolingly whist shaking his head.  _Things will be better tomorrow, little friend._

   Gingerly mincing across the tile to the sink, John paused and parked his crutches in the corner. He sighed, artlessly bending forward and balancing his weight on the porcelain. Pasty face wedged into the bowl and to the right of the spout, John floundered about for the tap. He found it and turned on the water. The coolness of it surged over his tongue, deliciously wet and refreshing. The water tasted marvelous, in spite of the metallic aftertaste he abhorred.

    John forced himself not to ruminate on the image of swarms of bacteria, rimming the spout. Sometimes, medical acumen hindered more than helped; in this particular case, whilst his lips wavered so close to the metal.

     _Suck it up. For every disease-causing pathogen, nine naive little prokaryotes are whistling Dixie and causing no harm. Just drink. On the other hand, however...I live with a madman. Who knows what filth circles the tap!_

_Shite. I really don't want to know._

_John. Just shut it, and drink._

Eventually, John felt sated and twisted the tap. On to the kitchen for some food.  _Don't know what's left in the fridge though- besides the left occipital lobe of John Doe's brain and a few forgotten mould spores. Nevertheless...when needs must..._

  John found his way into the kitchen without any further mishaps or blackouts ( _brownouts, you never lost consciousness, stop being a drama queen)._ Perhaps some toast? In vain, the doctor scouted for sustenance. Besides the brain tissue, the cupboards were bare. He hoped to God that Sherlock had -

   "I'm ba-aaaack!" Sherlock's rich baritone voice rang through the flat. "And  _John,_ I bought milk!"

    John gaped helplessly as Sherlock pushed past to the table. One, two, three...no, four bags of what lookedlike food and a jug of semi-skimmed. Holy _Mary, mother of God, we pray for these sinners, now until the -_

"John, you look terrible! Sit down!" The tall man bawled, bags dropped hastily to the lino. He was right. John's eyes, normally a formidable and piercing dark navy blue, now floated wanly in a sea of red ink. His sclera were bloodshot, pupils overly large. John looked like a man on his way to the mortuary. Sherlock cursed himself for being such a nitwit. He should have never left John in this state. 

   John caught the obnoxious  _squaaawwwk_ of one of the cheap wooden chairs sliding over the lino. One warm mitt of a hand reached under his left arm and guided him down to his bum whilst the other held the chair steady.

   "Thanks, mate," John breathed. "Too many meds and not enough food, water, or sleep. I'm just fine."

   Sherlock studied his friend's face, gleaning as much information as possible. "Want some toast, or some eggs, or a biscuit? I can call for some takeout, or even pester Mrs. Hudson for a fry-up. Whatever you need, I'll get it." Sherlock yammered, tossing items behind him on the counter with abandon.

   "Christ, Sherlock, I'm not dying. Slow down before you crack all the eggs!" Despite John's protests, his face paled even more as he spoke.

    The detective took no visible notice of his flatmate's protests, although John observed a modicum of care whilst Sherlock manhandled the eggs.  _Beans, bananas, bread, soup, tea, dried noodles, apples...and yes, even the milk. Did he remember the -_

   Three heavy glass bottles of brown liquid clunked down on the table. Peering at the labels, John realized that all three bottles contained top shelf liquor. This wasn't your average plonk from the corner market. "Eh, Sherlock, where did you buy those?" The doctor said, pointing at the booze.

   "I stole those from Mycroft, where else?" Sherlock grinned.

 

 

 

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I apologize if this is a no-brainer but "John Doe" is a colloquialism in the Unfortunate States of America used to label an unidentified person or corpse. Just sayin'.


	13. Liquor Makes for Loose Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the last chapter, which was posted too early by accident. On that note, I did a fair bit of revising after it went up, if anyone is interested in giving it another look-see.
> 
> Here, Sherlock feeds John and they both get drunk. Interesting conversation ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Whoever loves becomes humble. Those who love have, so to speak, pawned a part of their narcissism." - Sigmund Freud

    The men sat in the kitchen, pounding whisky and devouring food. Sherlock marked the hour on his watch. John was more than due for another oxycodone, not that it seemed to be helping. John hadn't even bothered to take it. He wore his pain like a yoke around his neck. Sherlock desperately ached to do more than buy milk. Overwrought by John's dilemma, the detective could barely sit still.  _God, what I'd do for one cig._

    Introspection had never been the detective's forte. Yet, being trussed up and beaten exposes one to unfamiliar perils... _in more than one way,_ the detective mused with chagrin. The only refuge from the excruciating agony came through submergence in his own mind. Sherlock's mind palace served more than one purpose.

    During the early years of consulting, Sherlock had been kidnapped and tortured by terrorists in two completely unrelated cases. Shaking and afraid, locked inside a dark corner closet of his mind palace, Sherlock learned to endure true pain. He'd suffered it, accepted it, and then pushed beyond it through severe psychological means. John had still been in Afghanistan; Sherlock had relied on himself (and the ever-present CCTV tracking of Mycroft) for deliverance. Watching John suffer made Sherlock speak Welsh.

    _And what have we learned, Brother Mine?_ Mycroft had murmured with something less than a sneer.  _Well? What have I learned from those pissants? That I'd rather feel pain than be forced an unwilling observer._  This had been an uncomfortable realization, as it made him more vulnerable to manipulation. This also generated vast amounts of guilt; a wholly unpleasant affair. Guilt gave Sherlock stomach cramps.

   Slight correction...watching those he  _cared_ about suffer made Sherlock weak-kneed with nausea and cramps. May it be noted however, that Sherlock never lost a singe millisecond of rest over the injuries he'd inflicted on criminals - inadvertently or otherwise.

   But, John. He'd done this to John. Yes, John had argued that it was  _he_ who had tripped, and the detective wasn't to blame...But. Sherlock swallowed down hard the bile burning up his esophagus. If he had just waited, or chosen an alternate route, or hailed a taxi. No. No sense in wasting time on "what-ifs". Dwelling on past errors of judgement was fruitless and illogical. He wasn't privy to the T.A.R.D.I.S., from that absurd BBC programme that John so enjoyed.

   "Another jaffa cake, John?" Sherlock said, lips pressed to his glass.

   John's head wobbled, eyes glassy and unfocused as he contemplated his flatmate. Sherlock's head tilted back whilst seeking that last pungent, brown drop. The detective's lower face was concealed by the glass, bent into strange angles by the bevels. "Mmmm....I gonna upswallow if I eat any more." The doctor scrubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Sherlock...you know I don't blame you."

   Dropping his glass with a thunk, Sherlock frowned. "Obviously, John. You've been rather repetitive in saying so, don't be dull. I know what you think."

   "But...that's not the same as believing it," John sighed. "It's my own damn fault and you know it." Grimacing, the doctor plowed on. "If you really want to know, I got scared by a rat."

   "Pardon?" the detective queried. "Did you say..."

   "Rat," John nodded, neck loose as a bobble-head doll. "A rat. A rat the size of a corgi."

   Sherlock snorted, teeth shining white in the gloom. "Am I to believe that a  _war hero - "_

   "Fuck you. I never said I was a war hero, and you know it," John blurted, annoyed. "That's your little moniker, not mine."

   Sherlock rolled his hand for John to continue. "Fair enough. So, a rat?"

   "Hehhhh...yeah, a rat. This huge," John indicated with arms spread out wide, "black rat, jumped out from behind a skip and took ten years off my life. That's," he pointed sagely at his mate, "...tsss when I lost my bearing and fell. So you...see..." John continued, sticking his floundering finger in Sherlock's face, "why tsszz not yer fault. I got scared by a... fucking  _marsupial."_

 "John!"Sherlock chided, appalled."Rats aren't marsupials. They come from the class _mammalia_ and the order _rodentia._  As a doctor of science, I should expect you to - ."

   "Just - stop. You know what I mean," John hedged. "Here we were, trailing after an armed man, and I...let you face this git by yourself because of a  _rat._ "

   "I was fine," the detective sniffed. "The man was a milksop at best. So he had a pistol. I dare say he'd make better use by throwing it at me than by firing it."

   "Sherlock..." the doctor groaned. "And now I've fucked it all up because of  _this,_ " he gestured in disgust at his ankle, "you'll be solving cases alone, with no-one as back-up."

   "Lestrade will be my back-up," the detective growled. "Wait a minute...perhaps you have a point.  _But -_ " Sherlock said, clearing his throat, "you are not...at...fault. It's just one of those things."

   "You don't know, do you?" John smiled, or scowled, or grimaced - Sherlock couldn't quite discern in the low kitchen light. "How I worry. How my fucking shorts legs with be the death of you one day."

   "What?" the detective snorted. "John, I'm not quite sure what you're getting at, but I - "

   "I let you down, Sherlock!" John howled. "Over, and over, and over again; it just goes to prove that I'm old and I'm useless - ."

   Sherlock abruptly stood up and knocked his chair flat on the floor. "John. Don't be stupid. I've never alluded to such a thing in all our time together."

   "Are you sure?" John moaned, reaching for a refill and downing it in one go. He threw down his glass to make air quotes.  _" 'We're losing him, John! Oh, do keep up, John! Don't be dull...John!' "_ John slapped his hands over his face. "I know wha- you think, Sherlock. You don't really bother mincing words."

    Sherlock's face fell. He turned about like a man in great pain, and reached down to pick up his chair. The detective stiffly sat down and wrung his huge hands. "Oh, John. What have I done?"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know...pretty short. But, in all fairness, it is really part of the last chapter. Stay tuned for more angst! LOL


	14. When Dealing With a Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conversation continues. Sherlock tries to dodge the bigger issue, but John's stubborn nature just can't leave it be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We choose not randomly each other. We meet only those who already exist in our subconscious." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "In the small matters trust the mind, in the large ones the heart." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "To be completely honest with oneself is the very best effort a human being can make." - Sigmund Freud

     "Nothing!" John blurted. His face registered shock. "You've done nothing more than be honest, which is the best that a friend and flatmate can hope for." Shock swiftly sublimated into misery. John snagged the half-empty whisky bottle and sloppily spilled another two fingers into his tumbler. "Oh, don't mind me; I'm just feeling maudlin." He threw back his head and slugged it down in one go. "Shay - same thing happened with my shoulder; it's history repeating itself."

    "John," the detective choked out. He surreptitiously slid the whisky out of John's reach; but John wasn't so far gone as all that. "I have something to say."

    The little man flashed a squinty-eyed scowl at the bottle and then down at his hands. He was clearly measuring the distance between the two objects. "Listen, Sherlock - " he began heatedly, feathers ruffled with indignation.

    "Don't get all riled,  _Dr. Watson._ You know the hazards of mixing narcotics with other particular substances as well as I do. Downing another shot isn't going to improve your situation." Sherlock swept the table clear of the bottles and shelved them on top of the fridge. He then collected their assorted dishes, cutlery and cups, rinsing the mess off in the sink. "If you still want something to drink, I'll plug in the kettle."

    "No, you're right, as always...as always. Sorry, Sherlock. It's been a shit day. The last thing I need to do is wake up with a hangover," John groaned, resting his face in his hands. "No tea, though thanks for the offer. I'm full to bursting as it is. Can I use the..." John said, eyeing the hall to the loo, "before you do your little talking thing? I have to piss like a racehorse."

    "Certainly, John, but of course. Ehm, need a hand?" Sherlock posed the question void of all expression or inflection. Since the injury, the ex-army doc treated every overture of assistance as a personal slight; an unfortunate by-product of being invalided. John looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon, but managed to bite back his bitter retort. 

    "Ahhhhh...let me see how it goes first, yeah? If I drop on my arse, you'll know I need help." John gathered himself up and ambulated awkwardly down the hall.

    Nodding, Sherlock remained behind. His muscles tensed as John angled past his line of vision. A horrible crash sounded, jolting the detective to his feet. The commotion was immediately followed by an agonized cry. Sherlock took two enormous steps down the hallway before freezing mid-stride. He'd spied John, not writhing on the floor as expected, but on his feet and clutching the frame of the door for balance. He was sporting a radiant, shit-eating grin. The doctor's left-hand crutch lay abandoned, the obvious implement for proper sound effects.

   "John!" the detective thundered, "what... you...I swear, I'll break your other ankle if you pull another stunt like that!"

    John giggled hysterically, a sound that always sent Sherlock's heart thumping. He gave in and laughed uproariously, caught up in the spirit of the trick. "Jesus, John," the detective snorted, "I nearly just pissed my pants!"

    "Serves you right, you big twat - taking my whisky like that," John said breathlessly. "If I was my father that crutch wouldn't be the only thing thrown to the floor tonight!" He rubbed the tears from his eyes. "Ahhh... Christ, I needed that. And speaking of pants, I'll piss mine as well if I don't get on in. Can you - ." John paused as Sherlock leaned close to hand him back his crutch. "Thanks, mate. So, let's say I join you by the fire in a few minutes, yeah?"

   Sherlock nodded, too busy laughing to reply. He stacked up three logs and a fire lighter, setting the whole mess aflame with a match. The man's otherworldly eyes glimmered in the low flame, reflected its bright amber hue. His hair's curls changed from dead cells to sculpture, limned by gold flame and deep shadow. Sherlock's profile glimmered majestically whilst the logs caught, and by the time John next viewed him he identified less as detective and more as Greek god.

   John inhaled sharply as he stepped to the rug. Sherlock noted the soft noise, and turned to stare at his flatmate. "The fire...got big very fast," John commented, carefully minding his path to the fireplace.

   "Year-old dry wood, from Hudder's nephew. They have that farm out in Sussex; lost a hundred-year oak in a storm." Sherlock spun back to the flames, restlessly jostling the logs with the poker.

   "Mmm, yeah, I remember. George, was it? Nice chap," the doctor murmured, thumping the Union Jack pillow one, two, three times as always before easing on down. "Ta," he said, gesturing to the fire. "Nice to bake for a bit before bed."

   "Yes, John," Sherlock hummed, sticking the poker into it's iron holder and stretching to his full height. "As I said," he continued, settling down in his chair and crossing his legs, "I think I have something to say."

   "Christ, that sounds ominous," John grinned. "Alright, I'm all ears. It's not like I'll be going anywhere soon."

   Sherlock stared at the fire and pressed his lips together. "It's not easy for me to say this, John. You know my opinion on sentiment."

   "Who doesn't, you git?"

   Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yes, I am aware I have stated this before. However, to reiterate, you know I hold pure, cold reason above all things."

   "Really? You've never said," John smirked.

   Sherlock glared in mock fury. "Oh, do shut up. As I was saying, John, I use logic as a guide rule for all life's decisions. Sentiment clouds one's judgement and leads to inaction."

   "Hence, why we haven't yet achieved world peace?" John quipped.

   "Jesus, you're cynical when inebriated!" 

   "Who said I was drunk?" John huffed, offended. "I required that whisky for medicinal purposes, you wanker!"

    "Quite. Now shut up. Not only are you cynical, but you keep budging in. Let me finish," the detective scowled. "This is as awkward enough as it is!"

    John's eyebrows slowly rose. His eyes seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light from the fire; they were solid-black orbs sunk in his pasty, lined face. "Ok, sorry mate, go on."

    Sherlock cleared his throat harshly, as if attempting to expel a splintered chicken bone. "Yes. Very good. Thank you."

    John remained still, awaiting his flatmates big speech, yet nothing seemed forthcoming from the lanky man's lips. John tilted his head forward whilst lifting his brows; a clear indicator to Sherlock to spill it, already. He started to rotate one hand in a "gimme" gesture. It was a no-go.

    "John," Sherlock gabbled finally, "here's the thing. It has come to my attention by the things that you have said; that you think, or indicate, rather," he sighed, " _John..._ "

    "Just spit it out. How bad can it be?" John demurred, silly mood abating with his flatmate's disquiet. "Lord knows, I live with a man who stores whole heads in the fridge!"

    "John. The thing that I have to say is...not easy for me to say. I am repeating myself...dull, yes?" Sherlock snorted with self-derision.

    "For Christ's sake, Sherlock, just say it before Christmas!" John barked, slipping from silly to serious annoyed in a split second.

    "I hold you in my highest esteem!" Sherlock bawled, eyes squeezed shut. His words came out louder than expected. "Excuse me, John. I said that rather _...forcefully."_ He took four slow, deep breaths, and went on in a much quieter tone.

   "It appears that with my...eh...blunt manner, that I have implied a disregard...that is, I have treated our relationship with disrespectful frivolity, in that through my thoughtless wording I may have inadvertently indicated..." His head sunk to his hands. "John! Sentiment is useless and a high-minded twat! I hate it!"

    "Sherlock," John said cautiously, soothing the wild beast. "I have no fucking clue as to what you are talking about, but I do approve the use of foul language. A first for you, I believe. I consider it progress. So, let's start with the topic, yeah?" he said gingerly. "And, then we can take it from there?"

    The detective grimaced. "Agreed. And the topic is, 'regard'."

    "As in, whose regard?" John said, confused.

    "As in, how I regard you and - ."

    "Ye-eees?"

    Sherlock's eyes darkened with something undefinable. "As in, how I regard you as a man, John. As in, my highest personal regard - for you." 

    John's eyebrows peaked higher than the Alps. 

  

    

    


	15. Regarding Regard, or What Does it All Mean, Dear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes something bad needs to happen for good things to follow.

   John stared at his flatmate. His small, yet competent hands clenched the chair until his knuckles turned white. The doctor cocked his head to the left, running his eyes over Sherlock's sharp face. "As a...man. As in a male flatmate? A male assistant? A male of the species? Please to clarify that last statement? I don't understand."

    Sherlock flattened his lips, perhaps to capture rash words lest they escape before audit. He remained quiet, countering John's intense scrutiny with his own piercing gaze. The detective took his time with his perusal. Sherlock's eyes lingered over the lethal grasp of John's hands; the precise geometric angle of his head, the pitch of his back. John's demeanor spoke volumes. There was nothing the man could conceal from the detective; they both knew it. 

    Sherlock's face slowly turned red. "Ack!", Sherlock squalled, smacking a palm on his thigh. "Sentiment is bollocks!" He shoved his fingers through his hair and grasped it tight, making fists. Several strands snapped off around his fingers. He growled with frustration, flicking them off in disgust. 

    John made to get up, an unconscious attempt to prevent Sherlock's premature balding. He winced at the sharp jolt of pain winging up his leg, instantly freezing in fear. "Damn it, Sherlock, stop that right now." He shuddered, glued to the edge of the chair. "Take it easy, mate! Settle down."

   Sherlock completely foiled John, popping out of his chair to charge into the kitchen alone. John caught the distinctive clinking of glass on glass, closely followed by the distinctive slosh of liquid in glass. The sounds were distinctive. He was instinctive. "Hey, you git!" He hollered, incensed. "Wanker! Hey! Shit-for-brains! If there's whisky in that glass, you're pouring me one!"

   Seconds later, Sherlock stalked out, bottle in one hand and stacked tumblers in the other. "Here!" he growled, dumping a generous dollop in both glasses. "Indulge, mon ami. Hell, have one on me. Why not, drink so much that you piss on the floor. John, I love you. I love you! _I love you!"_ He drew breath. "And, I don't know what I'm going to do!"

   

 


	16. Mon Ami, Please Say Oui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I just can't get these guys to shut up. The conversation...you guessed it...ensues. Also, over-gratuitous use of ellipses and italics.
> 
> Also...https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6QZn9xiuOE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How bold one gets when one is sure of being loved." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "In human beings pure masculinity or femininity is not to be found either in a psychological or biological sense." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Homosexuality is assuredly no advantage, but it is nothing to be ashamed of, no vice, no degradation, it cannot be classified as an illness." - Sigmund Freud

    "Love?" John blustered. "You love me? Hmmm. Right." He nodded, but not in acceptance. "You love me." This time, his words were delivered as a flat statement, as if he was unconsciously holding himself distant from the sentiment; refusing to commit to conjecture.

    The doctor stalled, hoping for clarification. Sherlock declined to speak, however, or even make eye contact. Breathing harshly, his fingers twisted together like dueling octopi; squeezing his hands free of blood.

    "You...love me. I'm sorry for being obtuse, Sherlock, but I was once informed in _very clear terms_  that love really isn't your area. Please excuse me if I'm a bit...eh...dull, but I  _still_ don't understand." He slugged down his drink, choking as it scalded his throat. 

   Sherlock stirred, terrified that he'd made a horrendous faux pas. He still had a chance of transmuting his course. Maybe, just maybe he could subtly reshape his confession of love into a simple commentary regarding the depths of their friendship. John was in his cups, after all. But, no. He would not be a coward. He'd wasted enough time as it was.

    "John. Before you...before we first met," he amended, "people were nothing to me but an irritating distraction from The Work. Emotions, sentiment, what have you, held no interest. There's no logic to love, I believed, and therefore, love had no use. I didn't go looking for something I didn't want or need. That would be a waste of my time."

    "And, then...what?" John sniffed, trying to not sound sarcastic. "I pop into your life and...what. If relationships, and/or _love_ have no purpose, then how did my meeting you change anything? I'm no George Clooney," he chuckled without much mirth. "And I am certainly no Stephen Hawking. I can't possibly be what you want in a mate - I mean, uhm, romantic partner? Booty call... friend with benefits...partner in squash? Flatmate who folds socks?" He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. The only sounds in the room were the poppings of sap from the fire.

    "Perhaps, my phrasing was - ."

    "Jesus, Sherlock!" John floundered, barely aware Sherlock had spoken. "I have absolutely no sodding idea what we are really talking about here," he bobbed his hand back and forth between their bodies. "It's making me crazy! So, yeah. What did you mean just now with this whole "love, regard... highest esteem" business," John made exaggerated air quotes with his fingers. The detective flushed. "Please elaborate. Otherwise, I'm just going to haul my sorry arse up the stairs and pass out - hopefully whilst not  _on_ the steps, mind."

    Sherlock inhaled, pursing his lips to blow the air out in a soft, even stream. Steady _... steady_. _I can do this. Isn't it about time that I do this?_

    Carefully, cautiously, Sherlock pushed out of his chair and walked the three short steps over to John. The fire had ebbed somewhat, bathing him in a bluish-blue glow. He could have been a ghost; hollowed out cheekbones and lengthy, slim limbs. In one hesitant move, the detective sank to his knees before John, carefully avoiding John's feet.

     John sat still as a statue. The diminishing light had transformed his deep blue eyes into black holes, absorbing the face of his friend. "Sherlock?" he whispered, "what are you doing?" 

    "This," Sherlock murmured, gently taking John's left hand. He drew it up to his full lips and brushed them against John's fingers, prompting a startled gasp from the little man.

   "Please, forgive me if I am making a colossal fool of myself right now." Sherlock lowered John's hand, but did not release it from the warmth of his own. "I love you as in...as in I _love_ you. That I want you to be more than my friend. I," he shivered, lips quivering, "I find myself quite besotted, John - it's ludicrous. I can't get you out of my thoughts. I want you. I want to kiss you. I want to touch my hands to your bare skin. I want to hold you in my arms as we lie in my bed, and make love with you." Sherlock drew John's hand up for another kiss, this time daring to give a wee lick with his tongue. "I want to do this again, and again, and again."

   John's eyes glazed slightly, his focus intent on Sherlock's mouth. He licked his lips, making two slow sweeps with his tongue before it slipped back into his mouth. John hesitantly disengaged his hand from Sherlock's to rub over his eyes. "Can I have five minutes to take this all in?" John fumbled for something to say that wouldn't hurt Sherlock. Never hurt Sherlock. "I can't even, I have to - hang on. I'll be back."

   The doctor made a grab for his crutches. "Wait, John," Sherlock protested. "You stay here. I'll be in my room, if you want me." The detective stood up and strode to his room without a backward glance. The doorknob latched with a  _snick._

_If I want him?_

_If I want him. How can't he see it? I thought he saw everything._

   John's eyes turned to the fire. He tracked a line of low electric-blue flame, licking the edge of one log. He wasn't gay.  _I'm not gay. I just happen to lust after my flatmate. You know, that person who just happens to have a penis. Jesus Christ - the Pope himself would pop a boner if he saw Sherlock wearing that (amazing) damn purple shirt, and God...those tight, tailored trousers. That git must do it on purpose. Or...if Sherlock was wrapped in a sheet. Yeah. Especially, wrapped in a sheet. Just a sheet, and no pants. The pope would roll over and die._

_Just like I do, each time I wake up in the morning._

_Fuck._

_What am I so scared of? The man literally, literally fell to his knees to profess his love. Love for me. Me. Fuck, maybe I am Snow White. There's no risk (don't be stupid)._

_Of course, there's a risk. God, I want him, I love him, I'd die for one kiss from those perfect, plump lips._

John thought back twenty-four years, to when his sister came out. She'd stood in the kitchen, defiantly tall (which was saying a lot, considering the gene pool of clan Watson). She'd screamed straight in her father's red, alcoholic, wife-beating face that she was a lesbo, a dyke, and a butch. He'd knocked her flat to the floor, kicking her twice in the gut for good measure.

    John, who up to this point in his horrid, miserable fourteen-year life, had never raised a hand to his father (but he wanted...oh, did he dream), punched the man dead in the temple and knocked him unconscious. His mother, a frightened, God-fearing Catholic from the north had bayed, and brayed (God help him, she'd sounded like a donkey). His mother had thrown her head up to the ceiling and prayed to the Almighty for forgiveness.

    ("Lord, forgive them...they know not what they do.")

_He'll get bored._

_He'll get bored and hate me and ask me to leave._

"I'm not going to get bored!" an impertinent bass rumbled loud across the flat. "You fascinate me, John. Every day. You are an enigma, John! A conundrum! In fact, you annoy the ever...you irritate me because I just can't figure you out!" 

    John's eyes blazed white around the dark. 

    "I'll never get bored, John. You're unique! And, you challenge me in ways that I never expect!" Sherlock bawled so emphatically that his voice cracked, mid-yell.

    John giggled, then snorted. 

    "You aren't going to hell, John! For Christ's sa - . For Jesus...Mother of...oh bollocks. Just get in here and snog me, already!"

    A belly laugh erupted from John, a hard, honest laugh. It felt so good to be free. The doctor giggled until his bladder reminded him that he was no longer a twenty-year-old man. "Shut up, you nitwit! Mrs. Hudson will think you're on drugs and call Mycroft!"

    A muffled expletive echoed through the venting. John laughed harder, giggles erupting into snorts and guffaws.

     

    

    

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, was this fun. I meant for the chapter to get to the nitty gritty, but I got tired. A reminder to the fandom that I am not a young woman. Besides...I have to pee.


	17. Crazy When in Love*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, will these two men shut up and bonk already?
> 
> Also, apologies that all of my chapters are so pathetically short. I work crazy long hours, in addition to a having a seriously hateful case of ADHD. I can only work at the computer for so long before I go crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The only unnatural sexual behavior is none at all." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> I do not in the least underestimate bisexuality...I expect it to provide all further enlightenment." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Dreams are often the most profound when they seem the most crazy." - Sigmund Freud

   John made a quick detour for to visit the loo, clean his teeth, and have a wash-up; the head-to-toe kind. The very thorough kind of wash-up, where one is aware that soon, personal space might be a misnomer. He did not drop a flannel and land on his arse, as earlier predicted. John took this as a good sign.

   After his ablutions, the little man gave himself an unforgiving inspection, casting a critical eye at the haggard face in the mirror. Self-doubt welled up; the question as to why him, why John Watson, echoed silently in the confines of his brain.

   Joy and amusement instantly lapsed into flustered apprehension.  _Out of all of the brilliant blokes in the world, he picks me? This is nonsense...this is crazy. Or, maybe I'm crazy. Fuck, who cares. Either way, I can't hide in the loo for the rest of my life. Get to it, you coward!_ John stepped into the hall.

At some point, Sherlock had opened his door a crack. A low light flickered, most likely a candle. John tapped once with a knuckle on the door frame. "Hey," he called, voice unusually deep. "Care for some company?"

   The detective must have been waiting just on the other side, because the door drew instantly inwards. "Hi," John breathed. "Can I come in?" He saw that Sherlock had undressed, now clad in a ragged grey t-shirt and cotton boxers. Poised atop Sherlock's cheekbones, his eyes glimmered with a strange, wavering light. Flashing John a sweet smile, he shuffled his bony feet backwards.

   "S'il vous plaît venez,"** the detective crooned, waving a hand in mock deference. He reminded John of the 1930's _films policier_ he used to watch with his mum.

"If you expect me to reply in French, you're going to be disappointed. It's plain Jane English for me, mate." John grinned, warily maneuvering into the room. He gave Sherlock a wide berth with the crutches.

  "Nichevo strashnava."

  "Christ, is that Russian? John snorted.

  "Da," Sherlock smirked. "It means 'No problem'."

   "I see." The doctor halted three feet from the bed. His eyes darted to the bed, then at Sherlock, and finally down at his crutches. He was a man who looked ready to bolt. "So...now what."

   "Now we," Sherlock paused to gnaw hard on his thumbnail, "do what you want to do?" His pale eyes flickered along with the candlelight, nervous, yet thrilled as well.

   "What I want? Not likely, you git" John grumbled, vigorously shaking his head. "What  _we_ want. Together, or not at all."

   "John, that's my point. That's precisely why I'm putting this on you. We already know what I want; I believe that I made myself clear," Sherlock stated, eyebrows lost under his fringe. "So the question is, what do you want, John? That's what I want to know."

  John froze, a deer in the headlights. His mouth gaping open, he stuttered "Well, uh..." His face flushed a deep pink, the tip of his nose almost red. His legs wobbled weakly.

  "Christ, John, I am sorry," Sherlock gasped, ashamed. "I wasn't thinking. Please sit down." Sherlock gestured to the bed, which had been straightened up with what must be clean sheets. They were too white to be anything else. John flashed him an inscrutable look, which could have meant any one of a thousand things. Sherlock's bravado instantly withered and died.

  "Please. I will stand where I am, if you want. I don't have to sit down. But your ankle..." Sherlock dithered. "You should be elevating it with some ice."

  Again, John shook his head. "I'm not going to ice it in here." He sighed and worked his way to the bed, settling down with obvious relief. _Oh God, I am sitting on Sherlock Holmes' bed. On his bed!_   He saw Sherlock's hands tremble, and for some reason it steadied him. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing when it came to dating a man; yet, from what Mycroft inferred, Sherlock had never dated a soul.

 "Come sit down, you git. I'm not going to bite." John patted the duvet with his hands. He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile at his friend.

  Pinking up, Sherlock put a hand on John's crutches, close to where John had them propped on high on his left thigh. "Do you mind if I move these?"

   John shook his head. "Please," he tilted one side of his mouth, "unless you plan to sit on my lap."

   Eyes wide, Sherlock gingerly rested the back third of his rump on the mattress. John giggled,  suddenly chuffed to bits by his flatmate. This ridiculous, irritating, self-involved prat was improvising as he went along. This whole mess felt like living in a live-action rom-com; awkward and titillating in turn.

   "For the love of God, get your arse in the bed before you fall off!" John guffawed. Sherlock lifted up on his legs to rearrange his body. This time, he angled his hips toward the compact, little man. "Both cheeks!" John howled, laughing helplessly.

  John's amusement tickled Sherlock. John was showing no signs of anger or disgust. John was laughing at him, yet not in the mean way so familiar from his childhood. John was just laughing, which was good. John had come to his room - also, good.  _John has agreed to sitting on my bed, and has invited me to sit on it with him. This is very, very... very good, indeed._ Sherlock sniggered, a giggle rolling deep in this throat. The two men giggled like loons.

  "Ahhh...please...stop, Sherlock, stop," John gasped, wiping his eyes. "I'm going to piss in my pants."

  "Hee...hee hee heee...oh, God, I haven't laughed this hard since that first night - when I fixed your limp." Abruptly, Sherlock cast away whimsy for woe. "Oh, hell, John, I am sorry, I'm being an idiot."

  John's expression sobered posthaste. "Enough, Sherlock! I'm not mad at you, honestly. Let's just not do this, ok?"

  "But you were," the detective snapped, more at himself than at John. "And, don't even bother with lying. You know I can tell when you lie, your true feelings are written all over your face. In fact, you'd make such an atrocious criminal, even _Anderson_ could figure out the clues and solve your case."

   The little man rolled his eyes, trying to make light of Sherlock's allegation. Notwithstanding, John's whole demeanor radiated unease. Scrubbing his face, he conceded whilst emitting a beleaguered groan. "Can't we go back to laughing? This up and down thing is killing me. Huffing, John groaned, "Sod it, Sherlock, have it your way. Yeah, sure, I was mad," John regarded his injured ankle with disgust. "Just not for the reasons you think."

   Surprise shot over Sherlock's face. "What do you mean?" he spat. "It's so obvious, your anger. You're practically dripping with rage, John, I can see it." And then, in a softer voice, Sherlock added, "I watch you, you know." 

  "Wait, just hang on," John winced, flexing his left thigh. "This sounds like a long conversation. Let me," he pushed down on the mattress in an effort to move back, "try to get into a better sitting position." The doctor's arm muscles protested, making his efforts inefficient and clumsy. "Bloody hell," John spluttered between gritted teeth, "prophetic, as usual, Sherlock."

   Avoiding his eyes, John muttered, "Being hel - oh, bloody _fuck!_ Being helpless to do shit, because my body is broken...so, yeah, I guess you're right. Being _crippled_  pisses me off like you wouldn't believe." Sweat popped up on his wrinkled brow, eyes ensconced in a face consumed by misery. 

  "Don't be stupid!" Sherlock barked, startling his friend into meeting his gaze. "You've never been crippled and you're certainly not now! I demand that you stop saying this at once!"

   "Jesus, Sherlock! You might be a genius, but you saying something doesn't always make it so. After this, who knows what will happen?!" John punched a fist on his thigh. "I'm not a young man. I might - the bones and ligaments may not - ," the little man crumpled into his painfully ugly jumper. "What if I can't follow you on cases, and...shit. I can't protect you if I'm home on the couch." 

   All sense of propriety thrown out the window, Sherlock scooped John up in his arms. 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The full quote is "One is very crazy when in love." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> **"Please come in" in French
> 
> Films policier - old black and white French films akin to film noir in the US
> 
>  
> 
> You know what really pisses me off? When I scroll through my work 500 times and don't see the typos until I have already posted. Arrrrgh!


	18. They Say the Third Time's the Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get it on...
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlVBg7_08n0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What progress we are making." Sigmund Freud*
> 
> "According to the prevailing view, human sexual life consists essentially in an endeavor to bring one's own genitals in contact with those of someone..." -Sigmund Freud**

   Large and small, muscled and lean, the figures on the bed became lost in each other's warmth. Sherlock roped his long arms around John and yanked him tight to his chest. John clung to his friend even harder; arms flush to his back, hands fisted into his shirt. Heartbeats regulated and beat the same rhythm. Every thought and emotion convalesced.

  They were a unit; a stable, unbreakable, covalent bond. The men breathed gently, noses grazing together whilst air molecules flowed between them via nose, mouth, and throat. Nitrogen, oxygen, argon pulled in to their lungs, carbon dioxide, methane, nitrous oxides and ozone out. Shared. A unit. As one.

    The men simply rested. It had been a long day. And John was tired of thinking.

   "John," Sherlock murmured eventually, lightly touching John's hair, "tell me what you are thinking."

   John snorted, amused. Snuffling into the lanky git's chest, John unwittingly giggled. "Deduce it, mate. I've been side-lined and it's pissing me off. Besides, you already can read my thoughts. Practically a bloody psychic, you." He poked a thick finger into the detective's chest, "Yeah, am I right?"

   "I don't have to deduce when you're angry, John," said Sherlock. Even if you weren't just standing on your soapbox, it's obvious as the nose on your face. What I mean, is... _this."_ He spun his hand in a circle over John's lap.

   "Really, Sherlock? John laughed wryly. "So much for deductive geniuses. I'm sitting on your bed, in your  _lap._ And, I believe I'm rather enjoying it." He squeezed his arms around Sherlock's torso for emphasis. "I don't know what I think. I just know what I feel." Leaning back to make eye contact, John spoke quietly, with intention. "And I feel this is very okay. It seems right."

   "You see, John, this is why you are my blogger. You lay it all out on the line." Sherlock smiled, so profoundly in love with this man. Slowly, ever so slowly, the detective eased his lips down and brushed against John's temple. The little man shivered, pursuing the butterfly touch.

   Humming, John nuzzled at Sherlock's perfect, long neck. "Hey," he said between nibbles, "So kiss me for real, you arse, you absolute nob. Do you know how long I've been wanting this?" John's hot tongue traced up the path of Sherlock's carotid artery, stopping to lave on his jaw. 

   Sherlock moaned whilst exposing more neck. "Oh, John. Now, you can shut up. Just keep...oh god, doing what you are doing. Oh, my god..."  A hot, red flush crept up from his chest and tinged at the tips of his ears.

  "I don't understand," John moaned. "All this time, you've never said a word." He moved up to chew on an earlobe, an uncontrollable whimper slipping from between licks and sucks. Sherlock's skin radiated a magnificent heat. John sensed his lips growing hot. "I have to get injured for you to say how you feel?" The doctor's cock stiffened and jerked. When had he last been so hard?

  "Please... enough for now," Sherlock panted. "Please stop talking. I've been biding my time for too long. This is...good. John, John... please."

  Reaching behind to thread his sturdy fingers into the detective's hair, John angled his head for their lips to make contact. He licked at Sherlock's lips, savoring their silky smooth fullness. He wanted to sink into Sherlock and  _plunder._

  Sherlock's lips parted and locked into place. The doctor sensed his sudden unease. Panting hard, John drew back and regarded him. "Sherlock, is this too much? Did I take it too far?" His blue eyes scanned Sherlock for clues.

   Pale eyes darted away. "No, John. This is exactly what I want," Sherlock blurted, abashed. "However, I - John. John, I am not exactly experienced in these activities...uhm, kissing, all that, and - the uhm...the sex. I don't know how to do this correctly, and it makes me feel rather uncomfortable. I don't like not knowing how to - I don't want to make a fool of myself."

   "I don't think that you can do something like this wrong _or_ right, Sherlock. There's no playbook for kissing or whatever else that we end up doing." John wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Sherlock grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

   "As long as we're on the same page about how far we take this," John stroked his friend's lips with his thumb, "I challenge you to use that brilliant brain of yours and _deduce_ what I like. I want you to pick me apart. I dare you to find my most sensitive spots and make me _scream."_ Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head, and a squeak rang high in his throat.

    Swooping in, John latched his lips to the side of Sherlock's neck like a leech. "Fuck, you beautiful man, you ridiculously gorgeous creature." Sherlock squirmed, overwhelmed by it all.

   Biting and suckling the tender patch of skin just under his ear, the doctor groaned whilst Sherlock sat helpless, whimpering and shaking with heat. "Oh Christ, Sherlock, you taste so good."

 Sherlock flung his head restlessly upon hearing John's words, bucking like a runaway horse. An electric charge zinged from John's lips, shooting straight to his cock. For the first time in his lonely, solitary, long adult life, Sherlock hungered for sex. He  _needed_ it. If he didn't get off with this marvelous man Sherlock would break into pieces and _die._

  "Nnnphh...oh God, mmmm, yes, oh _fuck!"_ Sherlock lost all control. His pelvis ground up whilst groping John's arse, simultaneously thrusting and yanking him one... two... and three times before John growled down deep and attacked.

   

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the full quote. I warned you that I might take Freud's words out of context. (Mwah Ha Ha Haaaa)
> 
> “What progress we are making. In the Middle Ages they would have burned me. Now they are content with burning my books.” Sigmund Freud*
> 
> as well, the second quote ends with "...someone of the opposite sex." But, if I can't misquote coke addicts, who can I misquote? LOL. So sorry, Sigmund. I sincerely hope that you are not rolling over in your grave at this bit of claptrap.**
> 
> Ack! I want to continue but, alas, I'm at work. Not exactly appropriate. To be continued at 7 pm tonight.


	19. One, Two, Three, Four, Can I Have a Little More...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP.

  Finding a position where his ankle lay supported strained John Watson's good humor. Nonetheless, occupational know-how comes in quite handy when one is a doctor or graduate chemist (with a comprehensive grasp of anatomy).

   Sherlock and John efficiently resolved the issues involved in supporting an ankle; John privately channelled MacGyver.* And oh...John deemed his earlier failures a blessing. Sherlock's refractory period matched that of a fourteen-year-old at a wet t-shirt contest.

    The five elegant fingers gracing Sherlock's left hand crowned with tough, roughly circular calluses. _Score one for fit violinists,_  John thought, reveling under each luxurious touch. Every stroke and caress crossed from silky to Spartan, was a distinction determined via deduction and guile. Uncanny strokes by diabolical digits -  _oh that's so good_  - meandered across John's helpless body. His quivering chest, taut jerking belly, velvet inner thighs...and _oh Jesus Christ -_ even that sensitized area edged by golden brown fuzz. John's low, lower, lowest stretch of his abdomen...so very close to his cock.

  Sherlock's eyes shone with fierce concentration, the face of a man defusing a bomb. John secretly patted himself on the...back. For all of the detective's brilliance, he'd overlooked one most particular fact. John had relinquished control of the moment, of this very first sexual experience. He'd done it for Sherlock, not that this experience wasn't absolutely lovely. Whilst John had absolutely no experience pleasing a man (other than himself), he'd certainly run through the gamut of sex. He knew what to watch for, when to push or hold back. Sherlock, before this moment, had no clue. Best to leave things up a virgin to avoid any jitters. John was a considerate lover.

 _There's always something..._   

   John lay writhing, slicked shiny with perspiration. Breath ragged and desperate, he'd clearly fallen victim to this naive sodding prat, the prat who'd promptly seized onto John's challenge. Now, Sherlock poised over John's heaving body with predatory glee on his face. The doctor lay utterly exposed, vulnerable to his lover's every whim. The notion was so incredibly _hot,_ John couldn't stay still. Sherlock moved on to nipples and stomach and soft inner thigh, rustled _through_ the crinkly, coarse hair of his groin.. That marvelous man skimmed  _sooooo_ close to his special places, so sensitive that John explode despite his cock not yet even been touched. 

   Sherlock's ethereal features beaded with sweat. John reached up a wobbling hand. He brushed away the tangled tresses cloaking those kaleidoscope eyes, and jolted anew with his yearning. He wanted to lick at those plush, perfect lips. One splendid pearl of sweet-salty liquid suspended atop Sherlock's upper lip, defying gravity. John couldn't hold back. Launching up on his hands, his thin lips raked over his lover's in a frenzy of lust, licking the moisture away.

  "Jesus, Sherlock, I need you to touch me. I need to touch you, please don't tease anymore," John gasped, falling down on the bed. "I can't stand it, god you're so good, you're so lovely and gorgeous and  _incredibly hot._ "

   A desperate whimper escaped Sherlock. He threw himself to John's side, panting roughly. "Yes, John, oh...I...yes. I'm afraid, however, that I - ." He bowed down and away in embarrassment. "I want to have you and  _god_ , you have me. Hell, Mycroft was completely correct. I have no experience with sex, and I'm worried I'll do something wrong."

  "Sherlock, if the last half-hour was any indication of your abilities in bed...well, hello Casanova!" John smiled sweetly. He reached out and drew Sherlock near to look in his eyes. "Surely your deductive skills told you that you utterly destroyed me just now. Jesus, Sherlock, I was so close to coming from your fingers alone that I - ."

   "What?" Sherlock stuttered. "Are you sure?" 

   Laughing, John said, "I am  _very_ familiar with my cock, Sherlock. We're very old friends. I'm quite sure. Why do you think that I stopped you?"

   "Er, I didn't, I wasn't aware of your level of arousal, but you definitely seemed to approve of what I was doing."

   John groaned loudly, "Fuck, Sherlock, you are amazing. And yet, I do understand your nervousness. I've been there myself."

   "A very long time ago! What, were you fourteen when you lost your virginity, you obvious horndog?" 

   "Ha! Not quite. That's a story for another time. But now," John cooed, "Would you like me to take over and show you what I know?"

   "God, yes!" Sherlock moaned. For the second time that night, John attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfCa3wn37mU  
> -gotta love that cheesy 1980's soundtrack.  
> -"All the boys had were four pillows, one erlenmeyer beaker and two chocolate digestive..."
> 
> Yes, once again, very short. I gotta walk the dog.


	20. Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten...I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a BAMF in bed (but a nice one).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Not all men are worthy of love." - Sigmund Freud*
> 
> "What we call happiness in the strictest sense comes from the (preferably sudden) satisfaction of needs which have been dammed up to a high degree." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Anatomy is destiny." - Sigmund Freud**

   John's hands threaded into Sherlock's wild, woolly hair, drawing him in for a kiss. All the doctor wanted was to flip Sherlock down on his back and ravage that exquisite body.  _God, do people like this really exist outside of magazines?_   _He's like an angel with the lax social skills of a toddler._ He licked into Sherlock's mouth to tangle their tongues.  _For a sexual novice, he really knows how to kiss! God, hot clever tongue..._ "Jesus, Sherlock, you're so good, please don't stop..." _sugar-sweet mouth, clever lips..._

 "John, oh, your mouth, John, it - tastes so good, my _god..._ " Sherlock panted. "I can't bear it, I need _ehh... nmmph..._ need something, I - "  _Dear god, I'm so simple. I don't know what comes next!_

   Swollen, honeyed lips frantically tore back. Sherlock stared at his John in horrified panic, appalled at his sexual ineptitude. "I don't...please...that is. Right," the detective bleated, abashed. Missing the bigger picture, John smiled with his eyes, whilst running a restless thumb over Sherlock's flushed face. The doctor felt honoured, and a wee bit cocky. Sherlock had chosen _him,_  ordinary, ugly-jumper John for this most momentous occasion. This brilliant, beautiful man was ceding his virginity to  _him._  John's brains leaked out of his ears to puddle on the floor. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't step in what was left of his mind.

  "Shhh, love," John murmured. "I'll give you everything you need, you just have to ask." Scrutinizing those sea-glass green eyes, however, John spied only confusion. In a flash, the doctor intuited Sherlock's dilemma. Empathy flooded John's heart. "You don't know what you want, do you, baby," John whispered, strong face offering calm. He ran his strong, competent hands over the planes of Sherlock's cheekbones, and torso, and neck. "It's like flavours of ice cream. If you've never had it, you don't know what you like."

   Sherlock's expression crumpled, then went blankly stiff. "Look," he choked, deep voice hatefully distant, "I know that I'm not what you're used to, the - my lack of experience,       my  _naïveté,_ if you will. John." He twisted his long torso, avoiding John's face. "John, if you've changed your mind and want to delete this whole mess, I completely understand -and I will."

   John hid his heartache deep inside. _This stupidly beautiful man. Doesn't he see how I feel?_  His heartache turned to into fury. Yanking Sherlock back around by his ossified shoulders, the doctor snorted, incensed. John cursed every ignoramus who'd purposefully hurt Sherlock and made him feel small. Forcing up his lover's elegantly sculpted chin, John pierced Sherlock's eyes with loving indignation.

  "Sherlock, my dear, don't be daft. This, here," John snatched up both of Sherlock's hands, weaving their tense fingers together. "You - and me," John yanked up, jerking their clasped hands between them, "we're together, yeah? This..." he squeezed, "is incredibly special to me." John, still clutching at Sherlock, bodily manhandled his lover to share a furious kiss. "You're right. This isn't what I'm used to. It's better, you're better, the _best,_ " John panted, struggling for air.

  The detective gaped. _This is impossible._  Sherlock parted his lips to reply. John cut him off before he could say something stupid, adamantly shaking his head. "No, stop thinking, and  _feel._ Don't you feel, can't you sense how mad I am for you?" Huffing, John rolled his eyes. "And here I was, thinking you knew how I felt, but ignored it. I figured my affections were considered "trivial nonsense", or worse, simply dull. Maybe, I don't know, doomed office romance? An intolerable distraction from The Work?" John shrugged helplessly. "I didn't know  _what_ you thought of my silly infatuation. I certainly wasn't going to bring it up if you weren't. I was afraid it would destroy our friendship."

   The detective's eyes widened. He cast about in bewilderment, blindly searching for some brilliant and amazing comeback, per John Watson. No such response was forthcoming. _Damn it, it's impossible to think with John's cock in my face!_  "How did I not know?! John. It's a ridiculous notion at best." Sherlock groused, loosening his hands from John's own to throw them about. "I always know what you're thinking. Preposterous, John! I would have seen it!"

   John cracked up, giggling at the pretentiousness of this arse. "Well," he gasped, "This just goes to show that you're not as brilliant at reading me as you think! Sherlock, you pompous prick, * _snort_ * I finally got one up on you." Making air quotes, the doctor simpered, " _'How pedestrian. You see but do not observe.'_ " Sherlock looked slightly offended.  

   John's giggles raised in pitch whilst observing this delicious man flounder. "Ahhh...love. Come here. Come lay down right here," he patted the mattress, "and we can find out together what you like, hmmm? What makes your eyes roll back in your head, makes you whimper? Oh, love," John crooned. "I want to make you feel so good, baby, like you just did for me. You were lovely." John hummed with satisfaction as Sherlock, flummoxed, crawled down to snuggle beside him. He gazed at John with large, wondering eyes but said nothing. They lay quiet, absorbing facts.

  "Sherlock," John finally breathed, hoping to crack Sherlock's reserve. "Do you want me to make you feel good? _Hmmmm?"_ The doctor flicked his wet tongue, promptly jamming it in Sherlock's flushed ear. Sherlock gasped in shock. "Would you like me to touch you down here," John ruthlessly palmed Sherlock's cock, "and bring you to kicking and screaming to orgasm?" Sherlock squeaked high in his throat. "Baby, do you want me to rub your cock," the doctor jiggled his hand meaningfully, "or put your sensitive prick in my mouth?" The detective appeared to be choking. "Tell, me, love. Would you like me to suck you off, flick the head with my tongue, _hmmmm,_  or maybe just swallow your balls?"    

  " _Oh god, yes,"_ Sherlock wailed to the sky, to the heaven's above; giving Mrs. Turner upstairs a jolt in her knickers. 

"Mmmm, I was hoping you'd say that. There is a small issue of logistics, however," John  glanced at his ankle. "We might have to get a little creative, depending on what  _we_ want to do." The doctor ran a suggestive hand along the length of Sherlock's arm. "And...one more thing." John's hand slipped down over Sherlock's fingers. His hand cupped to hug the slight mound of the lanky man's thigh. Slyly shifting even lower, John fondled the sharp curve of his pelvis. John worked his thumb in light, teasing circles. Subtly, trying to further seduce Sherlock without scaring him silly, John made a practical suggestion. "First off, how's about you take off your clothes?"

   The lanky git jumped as if goosed. It was canon law; once Sherlock's focus had a point of convergence, (in this case, the delectable Dr. John Watson) any and all transport woes were fundamentally disdained, with the obvious exception of breathing. Sherlock had ignored the plethora of sensory data his nerve endings shot up his spine, including the sensation of cloth against skin. Instead, he'd spuriously stripped off the other man's clothes, to then soak in John's responses like a sponge. Sherlock reveled in John's obvious pleasure as he writhed on the bed. Each sigh of bliss shot pleasure straight to his groin.

    Rather than poke fun, John began a slow campaign of relieving Sherlock of his kit. Sexually explicit dirty talk was one thing, but actual sex was another. Starting with his posh silky button down, John interspersed each undone button with a sensual, open-mouthed kiss; an incentive for each sliver of newly bared skin. Sherlock's long body twitched as his lover's tongue dallied, seeking out the most sensitive spots. "Oh, yes, that's it, John...that's so... _nnnnmmph_ _!"_ John's smile morphed from sweet to indulgent, and finally ruthless. He was going to take this ethereal seraph apart.

    Three buttons undone, Sherlock blanched. "John, hang on. Just - please wait." How did he forget this? It defied all reasoning. Time and time again, the beatings and the... other things... had blissfully slipped from full awareness. Mycroft had tactfully hinted at defence mechanisms, repression the most widely used (privately, Mycroft remembered). Sherlock had told Mycroft to stuff it and mind his own business. It was an unavoidable truth - John pushed all logical notions straight out of his mind and into the bin. Out of his mind.  _That's an apt assessment, you idiot. Intelligence drips straight out your ears to the floor, leaving John to slip in the puddle._

    _Scars. Leave shirt on, no explanation._   _I'm shy, and it's cold. Think he'll buy it? Hell, it doesn't matter. It is what it is what it is. And it is._

   "John. I'm a little chilly. I'd like to keep my shirt on, if you don't mind." Sherlock risked a look at John's face, evaluating the effect of his words. 

   "Uhm. Sure, Sherlock, whatever you like. This is about us, remember, not just me," John smiled reassuringly. His new lover buttoned back up. "And...the rest?" John continued, hesitating 

   "Of course. Yes, John. I want to remove my trousers - and pants, naturally. Just not my, em, shirt."

   "Come 'ere them, love. We can do it together." The doctor reached for Sherlock's belt, cautiously unhooking the buckle. Still alright, sweetheart?" he murmured, soft eyed and loving.

   "God, yes. I'm sure I've never been better." Lanky legs thwarted John's strong, yet compact arms for all of thirty seconds, before Sherlock kicked off his trousers in a frenzy of lust. His eyes locked in John's. Only John. All for John. Everything he'd ever done, well, at least the  _hard_  things, like jumping off a building and taking on a underground criminal network. Suffering torture until he'd wanted to die - for real, this time, not a ruse.

    It had all been for John, because... _I love John Watson. From day one, the day he saved my life and we ate bad Chinese. An amazing man, wonderful, beautiful...and he's mine._ _Yes, he's mine! All for me!_  Sherlock sternly suppressed the urge to evilly laugh, "MWHAA-ha-ha-ha..." 

If possible, things grew even more heated. John, who was already naked as a jaybird, and Sherlock; both of them hard and gasping for more. John, so gentle and tentative - stroking thighs, hips and and buttocks whilst appraising Sherlock's demeanor. John believed that for most people, their first sexual experience ended up awkward - and often disappointing, as far as orgasms went. Lord knows, he'd had many a lover who'd shared their personal stories (TMI, anyone?) Sherlock deserved something extraordinary. 

   John tapped the power of Three Continents Watson and quickly got down to business.

 

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *John startles Sherlock with this truth, that he is quite worthy of love; why was there ever a doubt? (Go damn you, Mycroft and your bollocks about "sentiment". Fucking ignorant git!) P.S. That was John's humble opinion, not Sigmund's. Sigmund would place Sherlock's doubts square on Mummy's clever shoulders. Freud was a wanker on the subject of women.
> 
> **The men off 221B find their anatomy quite compatible, thank you very much.


	21. Sail the Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, actually. No angst. That's what the next chapter is for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “dreams may be thus stated: They are concealed realizations of repressed desires.”  
> ― Sigmund Freud, Dream Psychology: Psychoanalysis for Beginners

   The Great Sherlock Holmes must be sleeping. Surely, this night was a dream? The situation surreal, the pleasure too great; infatuation deteriorating into delusion.

   "John," he wiggled and whinged, desperately begging for...what. He didn't have a clue. "Oh, Jesus...dearest John, can we...can we, _please?"_ Sherlock, whilst cognizant of sex's basic logistics, understood nothing of foreplay's minutiae. Nevertheless, John, honorable and stalwart companion, would never lead his best friend astray. John would know what he needed. John would know what to do.

  "Yes, Sherlock," the older man smirked, beyond chuffed, "yes we can. Uh...yeah. My leg. Alright, listen, love. You want to scoot that gorgeous bum over here...no, don't stop," John groaned as his love stilled. "Come 'ere, you git, keep scooting towards me, forward and up." John playfully slapped at Sherlock's upper thigh, giggling, "Up, up!" The gorgeous git gaped, unclear about John's ultimate game plan.

   Duly noting his perplexity, the doctor felt touched by Sherlock's atypical dithering. This was the man's first, legitimate sexual experience; ahhh...well, at least one involving more than surreptitious wanks in the loo...probably. Possibly. John wasn't clear on the specifics of Sherlock's masturbation history. Anyhow, it was only natural for Sherlock to exhibit anxiety. It was his job to set Sherlock at ease.

 _For this to work, for it to really be great, Sherlock requires distraction._   _I have to keep the bloody clot out of his head and 100% in this bed. He's over-analyzing this situation, trying to deduce. If I don't help stop it that we'll never get started._

  Tucking both hands into the space between Sherlock's arse and his abdomen, John commenced to wiggle his fingers. He tweaked at both cheeks, teasing and tickling the tempting (tender) flesh nestled therein; perspiration slicking his palms. Shocked by the assault on his nethers, Sherlock yipped, springing from of John's lap as if he'd been electrocuted. Toppling sideways on one elbow, he nearly fell from the bed.

  Laughing hysterically, John caught him, wrestling the mad wanker back up by the back of his shirt. "Come here, you great lout, and get that delicious arse back on top of me!"

   To John's eternal delight, Sherlock squirmed, adorable combination of mortification and arousal. Crimson color flooded his cheeks, neck and chest. John fought the crushing desire to consume this miraculous creature, body and soul.

 _Jesus...that plump lower lip...Christ,_   _his whole body is shaking..._  John, undone, abandoned discretion and arched up in to plunge into Sherlock's mouth. His protégé grunted, collapsing under the force of John's passion. Sherlock fell desperately into the kiss, skittishness forgotten. Open-mouthed and gasping, the lovers nibbled lips and tangled tongues.

 John felt Sherlock's rock-hard cock insistently nudging against his pelvis. He had to take a look. It bobbed and jerked, deep fuschia in color, playing peek-a-boo between the tails of his shirt. John thrust until his cock bumped up flush with against Sherlock's. They both groaned in ecstasy. 

  _How did he do it?_  Sherlock, clever in all things, had managed to conceal this monster, despite his predilection for tight, tailored trousers. Good thing, really - all of this, just for John. _All for me, only me._  A drop of clear liquid beaded at the tip, before smearing on the shirt near a button.

  Grinning wickedly, John guided Sherlock's body up until he'd fashioned a bridge of those powerful legs. Per instruction, Sherlock perched over John's chest, light-headed with lust.

   Inadvertently, he brushed the man's nipples with his lightly-fuzzed hamstrings. Sexual novice, yes. Oblivious moron? No. It took Sherlock precisely twelve seconds to pin down the source of John's pleasure as he fought to maintain his balance. Running a test trial, the detective slid one index finger under his thigh and circled John's nipple with the tip. John whined, frantically pushing back against the headboard. 

  Lips forming a speculative moue, Sherlock repeated his manipulations. Now, however, he had both hands roaming industriously across John's chest. John's nipples tightened rock-hard, whilst he squirmed and thrashed on his mound of pillows. "Jesus, Sherlock, that's...yeah," John whimpered, "yeah, that's good - Christ, that's good. I thought you said you were a virgin!"

   Sherlock tee-heed in delight. He delicately pinched each nipple until they'd stiffened into peaks on John's chest. "Ah...John, but a far  _superior_ type of virgin." Cocking an eyebrow with (mostly) mock grandeur, the detective winked. "With my superior intellect and your vast experience... well. Shall I just say that our endeavour will be smashing?"

  The little man rolled his eyes with a grin. He set about rearranging the pillows whilst Sherlock watched, attentive. Satisfied with the results, John used his lover's pelvis for ballast whilst sinking down on the mattress. Although he now lay at an awkward angle, the benefits outweighed the discomfort. 

   _Time to teach Sherlock about blow-jobs._ Whilst never giving one before in his life, John knew what he liked and applied that knowledge now.

  The detective watched, starry-eyed, as John licked and suckled on his cock. One of John's hands cradled the base, above his tight bollocks. The other hand inched ever lower, stroking tentatively whilst monitoring Sherlock's response. 

  Sherlock fingered the planes of John's eager face, limned rosy gold in the light. Without stopping his ministrations, the little man twisted to press his gilded cheek into Sherlock's cupped palm. John's action resembled that of a feisty ginger cat in need of a scratch. The strands of sliver threaded through John's ashy blonde hair glimmered which each turn of his head. John Watson, the man cast in silver and gold.

   The hunger Sherlock felt for John raged throughout his body, wild and undisciplined. He yearned to return the favour, devouring John whole. And, dear God, the sweet little nips of John's teeth over his torso, and flicking licks of that hot, pointed tongue. "John! Oh, God, John! Jesus, your mouth! That thing with the tongue is surely illegal?" Sherlock groaned, lost in insatiable lust. "Please...again, please do it _again!"_

  John complied, alternating quick licks to the glans with soft sucks. He could tell Sherlock was close by the tightness of his balls. He had to make a decision. Swallow or not? John wasn't sure he could do it. Yes, he'd sampled his own semen sharing kisses with women, but...this was different. He didn't know.

   However, any choice John had in the matter was abruptly removed. Sherlock exploded, hips jerking madly. John swallowed. It was either that, choke, or suffer a sperm facial. He swallowed. It wasn't bad, really. Slightly bitter, mostly salt. Like taking a drink from the ocean. Besides...the expression of wonder on Sherlock's face - surely that was worthy on it's own? The doctor finished up by licking Sherlock's prick squeaky clean.

   Sherlock collapsed, bracing his body above John's with his arms. After catching his breath, the detective expounded on the many virtues of John's mouth and his tongue, practically channeling Shakespeare.

   Sherlock interspersed his praise with soft, sucking kisses to said mouth, then his tongue...down to nipples, and abdomen, and thighs. He mercilessly teased John until John wailed "Sherlock!" and beat him about his broad shoulders and back. This was the sign he'd been waiting for.

   The detective, having the advantage of a superior intellect and excellent powers of deduction, slowly drove John out of his mind. And, he swallowed. Had there ever been any doubt that Sherlock would refuse anything John chose to give? 

    _None at all._

   

   

    


	22. Chop the Tree, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author budges in with a poorly-worded soliloquy. Sorry for that.
> 
> Heavy bouts of snuggling.
> 
> The heavy feels show in Chop the Tree, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We are what we are because we have been what we have been, and what is needed for solving the problems of human life and motives is not moral estimates but more knowledge" - Sigmund Freud*

  They cuddled. Sherlock actually cuddled, and snuggled, and nuzzled John Watson. This outpouring of love was hypnotic. Sherlock's soft touch eased John's sated body until he slipped into a state of euphoria. Curled within strong arms, John lay in repose; so still he hardly seemed to be breathing. Bewitched by Sherlock's show of emotion, John just let everything go. 

  *************

  _Hello, dear reader. Yes, I am breaching the fourth wall. Rude, of me, I know. Please excuse the interruption - the story will proceed forthwith. Now would be a good time to go to the loo, or grab a snack._

  So.

  Stereotypes are just that - overused. Cultural platitudes are part and parcel of every society, running the gamut from gender clichésto broad, social norms. Some stereotypes, yes, perhaps more than others, are ill-spirited, misinformed rubbish. Nevertheless, in several specific cases, a British social stereotype rings true.^

  Just for kicks, let's review archetypal notions concerning those of you who reside across the pond (lucky bastards). Firstly, there's the British "stiff upper lip". And, on the heels of this is stereotype follows emotional reserve, rampant drinking, pathological politeness, and standing in queues (not significant here...but I wanted to give a thumb's up to people who know how to wait their turn).

  I'd also like to examine the blatant overuse of toasters, the abuse of the phrase "a hot cuppa", the perverse pleasure found in wearing ugly jumpers, and finally, the reckless abandon practiced whilst decorating with extravagant wallpaper... well...* _ahem*._

  I digress.

  Let's begin with my feisty little hedgehog, John Watson. He is a military man, a defender of innocents. He's a healer, social interpreter, and stout-hearted best friend. John's lip is so stiff I'm shocked that he doesn't drool when he drinks. The man is pathologically polite, as well - even with Sherlock. As far as standing in queues is concerned, John was enlisted in the military. Enough said.

  However, one thing that John is _not,_  is a machine. Reserved, yes. Emotionally constipated? Absolutely. Coldhearted and calculating? Not a chance. In developing the premise of A Freudian Slip, I had to speculate on how a man like John would handle life without a "Mary" to support him. I hope that in penning this story I provide a viewpoint both realistic and entertaining, and  _if at all possible_ , unique. Honestly, the depth and ingenious scope of fanfic submitted in this genre is AMAZING.

  Moving on.

  BBC canon leaves much of Sherlock's experience during his three year hiatus up to the viewer's discretion. May it be agreed upon by all, however, that Sherlock had to kill an untold number of dangerous villains?

  Even in the best of circumstances, he had to act as a rogue; dead men simply don't phone the police. In "The Empty Hearse", Sherlock is seen as unkempt and desperate, a man who's literally running for his life. This is the only information we're given (a fact that has launched a thousand prompts). Excepting for a few minutes' conversation with Mycroft, this three-year ordeal is never touched on again. By anyone.

  Huh.

  As far as Sherlock the British citizen goes, he'd neither polite, or even politic. He is generally not seen as a drinker (Going into pubs with all of those... _people?_  How terribly dull), drug use aside. Sherlock flits about, having tantrums and conniption fits and bouts of hysteria. So, a definitive "no" regarding emotional reserve. He makes for a shit sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise.

  Consider this. When John kills the cabbie, one of the first questions out of Sherlock's mouth is "Are you alright? After all, you have just killed a man." He asks Irene Adler a similar question after pistol-whipping an CIA operative. And she's a dominatrix! WTF, Sherlock?

  Why has no one ever thought to ask this of Sherlock? And, there lies the gist of my plot - one broken ankle, plus one broken man. Lots of sex. Interesting.

  Again. I hope I entertain you whilst I put John and Sherlock through the wringer. _*Evil grin*._   _T_ _a for your patience._ _From, a hopefully, non-offensive American, who must remember to keep calm and carry on...for obvious reasons._

 

 **********

   John just let go. He floated whilst Sherlock set about nibbling and suckling, carefully placing hot, feathery kisses across his mesmerized body. The detective reeled, finding the salty-sweet taste of John's flesh intoxicating. Sherlock had known that it would be; everything about John was delicious.

  Sherlock felt his cock hardening. Nevertheless, he put aside the sensation of heat building in his groin without regret. Tonight, this very moment, was all about John. He had three years of neglect to undo.

  Physically and emotionally spent, the little man had sunk into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sherlock desperately desired oblivion, but belligerent images assailed his mind. His brain wouldn't shut up.

  Sherlock had no inkling of when he'd last cried. Well...that wasn't entirely true, it was just that he'd rather have forgotten. Unsurprising, really...he'd been on top of a building, entangled in the web of a dead master criminal.

  Sherlock stood stiff, counter-balanced against the wind. From his vantage atop the narrow concrete cornice of the Bart's roof, John seemed incredibly small and fragile. Sherlock clutched at his phone like a talisman, understanding he could never turn back. One more step, and John's world would be shattered.

  He'd been outwitted for once, played for a fool by the insane Moriarty. The man was more than a match for Sherlock's intellect. Moriarty, master villain, the unequivocal victor of their sick, twisted game.

   Sherlock had no choice, really. Kill yourself, or kill your friends. Not much of a brain teaser, that. In the end, he'd sustained scratches and full-body bruises. One simple step forward was all it would take. The knowledge overwhelmed him.  _If needs must._ Sherlock jumped.

  Sherlock fought to delete the last twenty-four hours before the sliding glass doors of Bart's Hospital closed in his wake. His crystalline blue eyes sparkled, welling up with moisture. Shiny wet lines streaked his cheeks.

   He had tried, he really had, to forget. But, some memories are etched in one's soul. Sherlock never forgot. Sherlock never forget many things from the last hellish three years. And, he'd eventually have to take off his shirt.

   The man who'd survived starvation, prolonged torture, self-mutilation, and relapse buried his head under the duvet, weeping the tears of the damned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^I hope that these statements don't offend anyone...I did try to research public opinion before posting.  
> www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/08/14/british-stereotypes_n_5461440.htm
> 
> www.gapyear.com/articles/274433/12-stereotypes-british-people-travel
> 
> whatculture.com/offbeat/12-british-stereotypes-americans-believe-totally-true?page=4 THIS ONE HAS PICTURES OF MARTIN FREEMAN


	23. Chop the Tree, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and harsh confessions, ahh...just in time for Thanksgiving with my family...LOL
> 
> Sorry this took so long to post. I was almost done, then decided that it wasn't where I really wanted the story to go. I scrapped the whole thing and started over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life as we find it is too hard for us; it entails too much pain, too many disappointments, impossible tasks. We cannot do without palliative measures." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways." - Sigmund Freud

    John awoke to find the bed cold. A Sherlock-sized imprint indented the sheets, but when John put his hand to the spot, he felt only damp chill. Sherlock had been out of his bed for some time. Peering at the blinding bright red of the digital clock, John saw that dawn was still several hours away. Maybe, Sherlock's bizarre internal clock had forced him to get up and start moving. The man upheld a ridiculous resentment against his transport's compulsion to sleep, despite the biological necessity.

   "Sherlock?" he grunted, propping up on both elbows to check for lights in the en suite toilet. No, no line of light illuminating the door jamb. John's ankle strongly objected to the shift in position, but he'd subconsciously switched into soldier mode and so ignored it. "Sherlock? Are you in the kitchen?" Silence echoed throughout the small room. The doctor frowned in chagrin; the quality of this stillness felt ominous. Sherlock wasn't simply being quiet. Sherlock was not in the flat.

    _Why does this feel so very wrong? Because, there's no case to run off to. Because, we've had sex; no...because we've had sex with each other. Because prior to this, he'd never been intimate with anyone, ever. Because, tonight Sherlock confessed that he loved me._

_Mad genius or not, that's a lot to be going on with for one night._

John didn't know how much he should panic. Granted, the previous twenty-four hours had been like living in a madhouse, what with navigating an emotional minefield whilst his flatmate struggled to play nurse. Sherlock had cracked from far less. However, right now the man should be floating in a virtual sea of endorphins, fast asleep. Witnessing Sherlock's magnificent, breathtaking orgasm had almost brought John to tears. _Jeee-zus, the look on his face..._  Sherlock himself had certainly appeared serene in the aftermath, nuzzling John into a post-coital stupor with reverential kisses and whispered sweet nothings. His absence probably meant nothing.

   _That's not true, I just know it. Somehow, something's gone pear-shaped in that bloody big brain._

Chewing on his lower lip, the doctor deliberated on the best choice of action. It wasn't as if he could run through the streets looking for him. Phone. He should sent Sherlock a text... something casual, friendly, the wording light. Certainly, nothing alarming or accusatory, say such as "Where the bloody fuck are you, you ignorant berk? I'm going to beat you with my crutch if you don't come back _right now._ " 

 _Yeah...that might not come off too well._ _First things first - find my pants, then my phone_. _Then, bludgeon the git with my crutch._  

Sherlock saved John the trouble. The doctor's phone buzzed under his pillow, eliciting another of those shrill, girly screams that'd originated after the fall. Or, the jump, or Sherlock's three-year hiatus, or the interminable span of centuries in which John moved like a zombie, or...or...  _Pick up the damn phone._ John scrambled, then picked it up.  _Sherlock, thank God._ Sherlock must have slid it under his sleeping form before he'd left the flat. The idea disturbed the doctor further. For whatever reason, Sherlock didn't want to talk face-to-face.

 

_**John - SH**_

_ Where are you? Why didn't you tell me you were leaving the flat?_

   _ **I needed some air. - SH**_

_ Isn't that my line? What's wrong? Please come home. _

_**I don't know if that is a good idea at present. - SH**_

_ Why the fuck not? Tell me what's wrong! _

  _ **John, I've lied to you. - SH**_

 

    John tossed the phone away as if it was radioactive. He cursed, instantly regretting his panicked impulse. Damning his father to hell for giving him these bloody short limbs, John circumnavigated the bed until he spied the luminescent glow of the phone screen. Fortunately, it had landed by the foot of the bed frame within easy reach. He nabbed it and clicked on the screen.

 

    _You lied?_

_ You lied about what, exactly? Be specific, please._

_ Why didn't you just wake me up and talk to me?_

 

   John panted, waiting for his phone to buzz. After what felt like a year, but was more like twenty seconds, John hit Sherlock's speed dial and hoped he'd pick up. One ring went through before Sherlock disconnected the call.  _Fucking hell, don't you pull this shit on me!_ John's entire body stiffened; every muscle tightened painfully, even those of his jaw. The flat was silent, except for the horrible rasp of John's grinding teeth.  

 

_ Sherlock, answer me._

_ Is this your idea of a sick joke, or an experiment about gay sex and intimacy gone wrong?_

_ What, experimenting with the feeble-minded flatmate for fun?_

_ Were you bored?_

_ God damn you, Sherlock. Don't do this._

_ Please. Come back. _

**_I didn't lie about loving you, John. I apologize for sending such a poorly-worded message. - SH_ **

**_I do love you, John, more than I could ever express in a text. That's not the lie. - SH_ **

_Sherlock, you're scaring me. Please come back. Whatever the problem is we can deal with it together._  

**_I don't know how to explain. - SH_ **

**_You might not want me back after you hear what I have to tell you. - SH_ **

_Start at the beginning, and we'll go from there. I will always want you, Sherlock. Forever and always. I thought that I'd made my feelings clear._

  _ **Not the same person. - SH**_

_? I'm not the same person, or you are not? _

  ** _I d_** ** _on't know what or who I am anymore. I tried to come back the same person I left as, but it didn't work. - SH_**

  _When you came back to London after shutting down Moriarty's network? Is that what you are talking about? Sherlock, please come home._

_**Had to do things...bad things. Evil things. It changed me.** _

**_I am broken. I act as if nothing has changed. Everything has. It's like looking through the wrong end of a spyglass. - SH_ **

  _ **You think you are the useless one? All I am is a brain on stilts. I offend all, have no redeeming social qualities. You, John? War vet, doctor, friend, conductor of light... usefulness personified. Me, I am nothing more than a vigilante. - SH**_

_Sherlock._

_SHERLOCK!_

_Sherlock, I swear to God, if you don't come home RIGHT NOW I am calling Mycroft._

_I MEAN IT!_

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock!_

**_I am coming. Whatever you do, DON'T CALL MYCROFT!_ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Beatles. Just sayin'.


	24. Skip the Rope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory post-Reichenbach chapter.
> 
> Dang it! I clicked on "post" instead of "save without posting." I wasn't finished. I am going to leave it up and continue on, instead of deleting it. Sorry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The price we pay for the advance in civilization is a loss of happiness through the heightening of the sense of guilt." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Smoking is indispensable if one has nothing to kiss." Sigmund Freud

    John went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Tea making was part of his daily routine, executed with methodical and militant precision. They used a cordless Dualit Classic, a fairly recent purchase, thank you very much. Copper edition, obviously - _“John! I can no longer abide the insufferable din of your ridiculous kettle. Ninety-five decibels, John… ninety-five! How am I expected to conduct my experiments whilst you insist on torturing me with that racket!? I order you to bin it this instant, before I’m driven to violence. And...here. Use Mycroft’s card to buy the new one. I pick-pocketed it just last Tuesday. Inattentive moron… And, John? We’re out of milk and those hobnobs I like. Pick some up.”_ )

   John manoeuvred the kitchen using only one crutch, whilst the other hand braced on the counter. It was British instinct, really. Faced with a crisis? Run for the kitchen and turn on the kettle. He placed two mugs on the counter, both chipped; no use in using fine china at half three in the morning. Two bags of Twining’s Everyday tea, steeped for two minutes and twenty seconds. A dollop of milk in his, barely enough to alter the color. Cream and a wanton three heaping teaspoons of sugar in Sherlock’s. _He’ll end up with type II diabetes one day, so I swear. That man and his milk chocolate Hobnobs… he has no shame._

  John refused to put out any biscuits on general principle.

  He blew on his tea whilst he waited for Sherlock return, the indistinct hum of the low fluorescent bulbs the one thing keeping John grounded. The soft, homey sound served as the flat's muted soundtrack when Sherlock wasn't actively creating chaos. In fact, it was this oft overlooked sound that sent the doctor running three days after Sherlock had jumped ( _died)_. The hum had felt like the echo of a previous life; whereby two men had sat in quiet contentment reading the paper and breaking their fast, the soundtrack of life with his friend.

  John was debating the dubious merits of a second hot cuppa when the familiar * _clunk_ - ** _snap_** _*_  of Sherlock's key in the door set his heart to racing.  _Sherlock. He's home._ The little man listened, parsing out clues from the reluctant and irregular thump of feet on the stairs.  _He's afraid. He's lied and he's afraid to come clean about whatever thing that's he's done. Fuck, Sherlock's not the only one who's afraid. What...I don't..._

"Sherlock?" John beseeched, after hearing his lover's steps pause on the stairwell. "I'm in the kitchen, love. I've made you tea... and, well, oh...sorry, it's gone cold." Shuffling sounds commenced, immediately followed by a miserable snuffling of congested sinus cavities. Sherlock remained mute, frozen on the wrong side of the door jamb. "I'm not mad that you left. That is to say, I'm not upset anymore." Nothing. "Please don't make me come to you," John continued. "My ankle hurts like a bitch."

  A sharp intake of breath later, the doctor heard Sherlock clear his throat hard before lifting a foot over the threshold. "No, John. I'm coming. Just stay put," Sherlock murmured, voice congested. "I...need to freshen up in the loo."

  The doctor understood Sherlock's reasoning, as the objectionable odor of menthol cigarettes wafted into the flat. The man had been smoking... a lot. Water splashed for several minutes from the toilet, although if Sherlock believed that he could hide the smell from John he was kidding himself. The smell repulsed John on multiple levels, primarily because of the detrimental effects of tobacco. In this particular case, however, smoke sent John reeling. Sherlock only smoked when what he really wanted to do was get high. John was vigilant about giving his friend a surreptitious sniff every day. If Sherlock had noticed, he'd never made comment. The detective wasn't going to get away with it now.


	25. (Don't) Look at Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued. Although, I have to say that the next line in "All Together Now" from the Beatles is highly appropriate for the heading of this section. Thanks, guys!
> 
> Wow. This got dark. So much for fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...with the coming of weapons, superior brains began to oust brute force, but the object of the conflict remained the same: one party was to be constrained, by the injury done him or impairment of his strength, to retract a claim or a refusal. This end is most effectively gained when the opponent is definitely put out of action — in other words, is killed. This procedure has two advantages: the enemy cannot renew hostilities, and, secondly, his fate deters others from following his example....Paradoxical as its sounds, we must admit that warfare well might serve to pave the way to that unbroken peace we so desire..." - Sigmund Freud, from a written correspondence with Albert Einstein regarding the concepts of humanity, violence, and establishment of peace. (www.brainpickings.org)

   Eventually, the splashing ceased, the toilet flushed (more splashing of water immediately following), flannels thumped on the floor, and the en suite door clicked open. In self defence of his sanity, John had kept busy by brewing more tea. Weakening, he'd thrown a half-empty packet of McVitie's on the table. Crumbs tumbled out through a tear in the plastic, some of them spilling to the floor. A falling hazard, that. His crutches might lose purchase on oily bits of chocolate. John couldn't be arsed to care. Sherlock's new cup of tea briskly steamed. The doctor temperament followed suit.

   Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. John peered up to see red, swollen eyes burned into his face. Instantaneously, the little man's ire dissipated, emotions mutating into horrified panic. _"Jesus,_ Sherlock. Come, sit down," John croaked, and reached out to grasp at his pale, lanky hand. Sherlock leaned his tall body over the corner of the table, stretching to clutch at John's hand. He placed a wet, gentle kiss on John's head, then straightened up to toe a chair out and sit down. Sherlock didn't relinquish John's hand. They sat, staring at each other. What a strange twenty-four hours this had been.

  Someone had to break the ice and start talking. Surprisingly, it wasn't John. Sherlock spoke quietly for a very long time. He took the occasional breath, sometimes pausing to moisten his throat with sweet tea. The biscuits lay unmolested. The doctor listened. He waited, patient, when his lover broke down. Three times, Sherlock broke into sobs. By the time early sunlight flooded over the expanse of the kitchen, John's face glistened with tears. Sherlock had three years of activity to account for. His story was terrifying, and heartbreaking, and desperate. John almost wished he'd stayed silent...but not really. No one, least of all this man, should shoulder this burden alone.

  Sherlock spoke of killing, and hurting, and hunting down the enemy. With every horrid, harmful act he committed for the safety of others, a piece of his soul deteriorated. By the end of the first year, for every man or woman he killed he made one cut on the skin of his chest or stomach. One laceration per life. Sherlock's chest was zigzagged with scars. By the middle of the second year, cutting no longer mitigated his misery. Sherlock used. Not very often... he needed to keep his wits if he wanted to succeed in the mission. But, in a few of the safehouses that he'd set up, Sherlock shot up until he no longer felt the blood on his hands. It always came back, no matter how much soap that he used. His hands were stained with the blood of his enemy.

  At the end of the second year, Sherlock got sloppy. He was captured in Serbia, and held for six days in a chamber of horrors. Whatever penance he felt he owed was paid, and paid, and paid a thousand times over by what these people did to his body. Sherlock's back had raised scars, and burns, and in one spot a half-inch divot of missing muscle. His upper body was now defiled. In order to shield his loved ones from this knowledge, Mycroft had employed a special-effects make-up artist from the film industry. Sherlock had a cast taken of his upper body. Four thin, silicone segments of "skin" were moulded from the casting and combined to form something like a fitted vest to wear at all times. This artist had given Sherlock a smooth, even surface on which he could wear whatever poncy, purple, fitted shirt he desired with no one the wiser. He had been given three silicone vests, and employed them all all times except when camouflaged in silk sleepwear and dressing gowns.

  It took twelve months of intensive therapy combined with rehab for Mycroft to deem Sherlock fit to re-enter London society. John knew the rest of the story from there. Sherlock, his triumphant return, no worse for the wear. He resumed his high-profile life of deduction and intrigue, a crime-fighting master with a really good coat.

  The Great Sherlock Holmes, home at last.


	26. All Together Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries his best not to shoot people. Sherlock tries his best to stay present. Canoodling ensues as a form of therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We are made of flesh, but we must act as if we were of iron." - Sigmund Freud

   "Show me," John said, deliberately modulating his tone, hoping to sound soothing and gentle. This, not surprisingly, took an enormous dint of will. John certainly didn't feel genial or at ease. A razor-sharp spike of vindictive fury rent his heart, hot rage coursing through his veins like a poison. John itched to annihilate those fucking bastards, those - _men_ \- who starved, beat, cut, burned, and half-drowned the love of his life. He quashed the urge to let fly with a primal scream, load his gun, and grab the first available flight to the continent. John wanted to explode, but he couldn't. _This moment in time is for Sherlock. Watson, get your shit sorted, right now._

   The tenacious self discipline John honed as a soldier was the one and only thing that kept his outward appearance rational and steady. If Sherlock had been in any ordinary state of mind, he would have seen John's fingers crushed into shaking fists, despite his concealing them under the table. The detective wasn't in any state resembling convention, however, even for him. Sherlock practically spewed agitated unease, as if he might bolt out of the flat given the slightest provocation. The genius was high-strung at the best of times, but now, this? If John wasn't careful, he might propel Sherlock into the terror of a flashback - and then where would they be?

  The little man stood up cautiously, supporting his weight with the table. He hobbled, using the chairs to manoeuvre. John tentatively stood before Sherlock and brutally gnawed at his bottom lip. The detective moaned, twisting away on the old wooden chair in an effort to shield his face. This situation was becoming intolerable.

  Granted, as an army doctor, John had been witness to the detestable depths to which men sunk. Nevertheless, what those -  _men_ \- had done to his body had also destroyed parts of his soul. John's body language was all over the place, displaying fear (both for Sherlock _and_ himself), righteous rage, sorrow, and something else... something he couldn't deduce. Revulsion, perhaps? He didn't know. Sherlock only knew that he'd caused John more pain. 

  Sherlock closed his eyes and clocked out. 

   _Shit on that!_ John thought.  _He's gone to his bloody mind palace. Bring him back, keep him here. Keep him calm._ Gingerly edging forward, John dared to smooth down the snarls in his hair. "Sherlock," he whispered. "Come back to me, stay with me." Chills shot down his back as Sherlock's eyes flicked open, vacuous and unfocused. "Sherlock! Look at me, love, I need you here, now." John all but jammed his face into Sherlock's in a bid to command his attention.  _Ahhhh._ Sherlock met his eyes.

  A single tear spilled over the planes of the detective's face. "I can't. John, I just..." He forced bitter bile down his throat. "My body is ruined. It's dis..."

   "No, Sherlock, _no._ Whatever is there, hidden under your shirt, that doesn't matter to me." John sucked in air, suddenly panicked. "No, no, that came out wrong. That's not what I meant."

    Sherlock started, eyes glassy with shock. "What?"

   "Shit! That's, bloody hell, how do I explain? Whatever scars you have, or... how they changed your... fuck." John drew long breaths of air through his nose, exhaling noisily from his mouth.  _Calm. I must remain calm._ "What I'm trying to say is, that,  _God_ , Sherlock. You've seen my own scars, yeah? What you went through, the sacrifices you - "

   "I  _killed_ people, John. I stalked them, and killed them! I _shot_ and I  _stabbed_ and threw people off of bridges! Does that sound like sacrifice to you?" Sherlock keened.

   "I  _deserved_ to be punished, John! I broke every moral code I upheld. I have blood on my hands that will never wash off," he moaned, scrubbing his hands restlessly on his trousers. "I didn't even care, anymore. All I could think of was  _you_ , and Mrs. Hudson, and  _Greg_ being gunned down because of my  _arrogance._ " He sighed, defeated. "I had no choice. And I ended up hurting you, anyway." 

   "Sherlock, no. Once you'd explained, yeah, I was incredibly pissed, and it didn't erase the pain, but I got it. I got over it. I moved on, Christ, I  _moved back in,_ " John wailed. "Surely that tells you I forgiven you. And Sherlock, I killed a bloody cabbie for you within twenty-four hours of acquaintance! You weren't drowning kittens in the Thames, yeah? You were fighting a one-on-one war with the scum of the earth." Rubbing his face raw in frustration, John hoped he'd gotten through.

   "Enough, now," John murmured, daring to stroke Sherlock's cheek. "You know that I love you. I think you love me."

   "Yes, John, yes I do!"

   "So, believe me when I say that you DIDN'T deserve this! Any of this. we're agreed. We're in this together, yeah? What happened is done and over with, love." 

   Fire flashed from Sherlock's strange eyes, much to the doctor's relief. "Yes, together, but  _John_ , the scars...they're awful. I'm ruined and ugly. I can't show possibly them to you."

   John moved in, straddling Sherlock's legs with his own. They sat, noses rubbing, sharing breath. "Sherlock," he beseeched. "Just show me. I promise it won't change how I feel; Christ, how could it? We were pawns, you and I. Now the game's over, and done." He ran hot hands up Sherlock's chest, catching the rapid pulse of Sherlock's heartbeat under his fingertips. Cupping Sherlock's taut cheeks, John used his thumbs to wipe tears. "It's all going to be fine, love. Trust me to tell you the truth." 

   The doctor persevered, peppering his lover's face and forehead with sweet, gentle kisses. "I love you..." he breathed, "and I'll continue to love you tomorrow, and the next day - forever.  _Sherlock,_ " John murmured into Sherlock's wet mouth, "you are mine. I am yours. It's okay."

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this worked.


	27. Can I Take My Friend To Bed? (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John proves that love is blind, and that sexy is centered in the mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get into accord with them: they are what legitimately what directs his conduct in the world." - Sigmund Freud

   John took a note from Sherlock's book. He kissed, and nibbled, and laved hard over the fierce planes of Sherlock's long neck and face. He lifted up large, bony knuckles to press to his lips. John's thin, mobile mouth roamed the curl of Sherlock's ears and the line of his jaw. Throughout it all, tears rolled off the lashes of those silvery-green eyes.

   "No, baby, shhhh... It's alright, we're okay, it's all good," the little man murmured between soft, ardent kisses. "I love you, I love you, I am here for you now."

  "John, I don't know if I...have the courage to do what you're asking. My body is... not what it was," Sherlock said with a hiccup. "You might - want to change your mind once you see."

  Out if the blue, John's distress morphed into madness and his spine snapped up straight as an arrow. "Sherlock Holmes, I can't _believe_ you just said that. Tell me you just didn't say that!"

 "Why?" Sherlock protested, his face ghastly pale. "Why  _wouldn't_ I say such a thing? My dear John," he paused, impelled to snuffle a great wad of snot up his nose before dripping, "you do know I that I'd monitored your dating behavior since the day you'd moved in. You are prone to smooth-skinned women with blue eyes and large bottoms. Tell me if I am wrong."

  John rolled his eyes to the ceiling, really not wanting to lie. "No, you're right, Sherlock. But looks were only part of the equation for me then. Christ, Sarah's bum was flatter than a pancake. I was attracted to her mind as well as... well, as other things." He licked a long, sticky stripe up Sherlock's endless neck, ending the move by chewing on an earlobe. "Frankly, it had been a long time, and I was dying to get a leg over. I wasn't too particular about the specifics. And I won't even discuss with you the disaster known as Janette."

  "All very well," the detective sighed, his chest heavy with dread, full lips trembling. "But, I am not sure if you are understanding the full picture, here, that is - with me. My body is decidedly disfigured. Look at me, the 'High Functioning Sociopath', the _freak_ , bawling like a nancy boy done wrong." Unthinkingly, he drew the back of his hand under his nose, and then grimaced as he caught sight of the thick nasal discharge left behind in a smear.

  "Enough with that nonsense." John snapped, amending his snarl with a kiss. "You and I both know you're not a sociopath, high functioning or otherwise. As far as - " John breathed, unable to speak without a waver in his voice.  _What this man must have gone through to alter him so._ "Sherlock. You are _NOT_ a freak, you are  _not._ I don't ever want to hear such rubbish coming out of your mouth again." His deep blue eyes darkened with heartache. John's lips twisted in a parody of a smile. He tried again. "And, weeping is a physiological - and a normal, may I add, response to great stress." Sherlock grimaced, ashamed of being thought weak. "Don't give me that, love! Aren't I right?" Sherlock glared down at his hand, pretending that John hadn't spoken. 

    "Sherlock!" John snapped. All thoughts of staying calm fled his mind.  _Damn it, he's not going to ignore me this time._ "Please. The Work is partly based on deducing human motivation, is it not?" Sherlock pressed his lips together in a completely straight line, riveted by the sticky slick tainting his knuckles. 

    Frustrated, John pursed his thin lips whilst executing a pronounced, circular twitch of his nose. He inhaled, opening his mouth to forge on. The little man sidelined all thoughts of speaking, however, as he honed in on his flatmate's behavior. Sherlock, incensed, abruptly thrust out his arm. He flapped it about with intention, ending each jerk with a panicky flick of his fingers. 

   John huffed, extremely familiar with his flatmates' pathological distaste of being dirty. Pivoting awkwardly on his hips, he reached to grab a rag from behind him. It had been languishing on the worn wooden table for over a week, and John had purposefully left it alone. He'd ruined more than one of Sherlock's experiments when straightening their shambles of a kitchen, and the doctor had it up to here with being sniped at.

   Ever the medical professional, John inspected it with suspicion whilst unconsciously checking his balance. The rag's surface was marred by a few small brown stains, but nothing that automatically screamed danger. Nevertheless, considering his flatmate's typical methods of research, he warily gave it a sniff. Nothing. There were no indications of moulds, toxins, acids, or other unknown... and possibly unsavory substances. The doctor deemed it tolerably clean, and therefore, permissible to use. 

   Clearing his throat, John raised it up as an offering, but Sherlock remained lost in his frenzy of flapping. John was actually being jostled as he perched atop Sherlock's lap. There was nothing for it. Struggling, John attempted to grab his lover's wrist with his hand. The two men were instantly engaged in a wrestling match, and John wasn't scoring any points.

 _Stupid... goddamn bloody short arms._   _Thanks for passing on all your shit genes, Dad, including the addiction to alcohol!_

   Eventually, though sheer stubbornness, John hooked his small hand around Sherlock's bony elbow. He reeled in his long arm like a swordfish. Sliding his hand down the length of Sherlock's forearm, John cinched his wrist in a death grip. Containing his lover's flailing felt tenuous, but years of training had left John's arms strong. He just had to wait Sherlock out. The man had biceps thin as string beans

   "Sherlock... wait" John grunted with effort, sparing some energy to get through to Sherlock with his words. "Hold still, you berk!" No response. "For God's sake, would you let let help you?" Sherlock whined high in his throat. "Sherlock Holmes! Will you just _stop_ for a minute?" 

   The detective froze, celadon green eyes staring into the distance. Whilst John wasn't crazy about his lover's shell-shocked gaze, it afforded him the time to wipe off the mucus. Better than before, if not exactly sanitized. Honestly! Considering the putrescent materials Sherlock habitually worked with (and stored on the same shelf as the milk, _thank you very much_ ), he was acting like a squeamish great aunt. The detective silently submitted to John's ministrations

   And, there was a very strange light within his eyes.

   John tossed the cloth to the floor under the table. Sherlock would never, ever touch it again.

  "Jesus," John groaned. "That was far more difficult that it should have been. Sherlock, can you look at me, please?" Sherlock blinked wildly and bit his bottom lip hard. Two seconds later, a small bead of red blood trickled down from under his clenched teeth. "Oh, love! Bloody... Jesus, Sherlock!" Giving up all hope of having a rational and reassuring conversation, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held tight.

    

 

   

 


	28. Can I Take My Friend To Bed? (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knows how long I've loved you?  
> You know I love you still.  
> Will I wait a lonely lifetime?  
> If you want me to, I will.
> 
> (Skip one stanza)
> 
> Love you forever and forever,  
> Love you with all my heart.  
> Love you whenever we're together,  
> Love you when we're apart.
> 
> And when at last I find you,  
> Your song will fill the air.  
> Sing it loud so I can hear you.  
> Make it easy to be near you.  
> For the things you do endear you to me,  
> Oh, you know I will.
> 
> I will.
> 
> The Beatles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Words and magic were in the beginning one and the same thing." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength." - Sigmund Freud

  Reeling in each other's warmth, John whispered sweet nothings and combed strong, sturdy fingers through Sherlock's curls. The doctor's muscles and shoulder joint burned; supporting both their weight took some effort. Nevertheless, John viewed his discomfort immaterial; therefore, not worthy of consideration. His old injury twinged in fretful resentment, in spite of the ex-soldier's dismissal. All sorts of misery were about to be revealed, so why not revisit a bullet to the shoulder? John stiffened, fighting the ache, before advising his old injury to kindly bugger off. The little man's soothing movements continued unabated, for what seemed like a very long time.

  Eventually, the detective's body startled, then stretched. Permitting himself an internal sigh of relief, John smiled as Sherlock's large hands stirred to life. They clutched weakly in pained resignation, nails snagging on the woolly weave of his jumper. The detective looked up, managing a watery smile. His lips silently formed his soulmate's name, and John mirrored the action with a wry grin. 

   "John?" Sherlock exhaled, and then stopped. The detective chided himself for his lack of coherence, terrified of losing all control. He felt emotionally stunted, almost impotent. "I - please, excuse me for that shameful display of hysterics. Most unbecoming a British gentleman, I know," he gurgled, sinuses swollen and full. Sherlock made a soggy attempt at some levity. "But, when have I ever truly been a..."

   "Shut up Sherlock, just - shut up." The doctor's words rang with pained, yet patent affection. His small hands cupped Sherlock's cheeks. "I am just really, really relieved... fuck... that you told me the truth. Christ, love," John muttered, hands reaching back to cradle his lover's skull. "What you endured would break anyone! Being brilliant isn't some sort of panacea against torture." The men simultaneously cringed, recalling Sherlock's week of agony.

    As a species, humans were rarely humane. 

    Drawing near, they bumped foreheads; their emotions too intense to lock eyes. Sherlock shifted lower, hiding his face in John's neck. Feeling decidedly fragile, he murmured, "I love you. John, I... so very much. I've never..." he hesitated, nuzzling John's ear, "loved anyone this much. Is _this_ why I'm so very frightened?"

    "Dear heart, oh my love," John breathed into his ear. "Please don't be afraid. Not of me, not of us." There's so much that I want to tell you, and show you, and..." he squirmed, attempting to ease his sore thighs. "There's so much. But," he smiled ruefully, "I need to change the venue, as it were. Both my bloody feet have fallen asleep."

    Sherlock jerked up in dismay, mouth gaping with guilt. Broken skin laid bare on his full, lush lower lip, a gash the length of his two top incisors. The surrounding area puffed up, an irritated, crimson injustice. "John, I'm so sorry!" he croaked, large head spinning around  the room. "Yes, of course! Uhm... Right. Exactly where would you like to relocate?"

     John bit his own lip, albeit without breaking the flesh. His eyes flitted over Sherlock, evaluating his status, and how his own words would be taken. "Sherlock," he groaned, almost spent, "can we just go kip on your bed?" They were difficult, the things that he needed to say. John needed to say them, all the same. They might as least be physically comfortable, he mused. And he was so very, very exhausted.

    "I wasn't having you on when I asked you to show me your scars," John said, angling his chin down and to the side. Peering up thoughtfully from the corner of his eye, the little man raised his eyebrows whilst pursing his lips. Dr. John Watson, determination personified. The doctor nodded one, then lifted his head up for an audible sniff. "Also, I'm going to need you to help me. I wasn't joking about my feet."

   Sherlock stiffened, nodding forlornly. "Yes, John, but of course. Not a problem."

   *************

   Five excruciating minutes of pins-and-needle agony later, John dealt with his fidgets by manhandling the bed pillows into submission. They ended up slightly worse for wear, lined up like prisoners against the headboard. Meanwhile, Sherlock had dashed off, seeking the Union Jack cushion. Plumping up the much maligned symbol of their sovereign nation, the detective arranged, then rearranged it under John's boot.  

_Soldiers - today we are soldiers._

_*************_

It was a slow process, this: the unveiling of a body cast into hell. John remained silent and intent whilst Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. The doctor blanched when he realized how close his lips had come to touch Sherlock's... Christ, Sherlock's "vest". John's practiced eye spotted the junction where true skin met silicone; roughly, where the third costal cartilage began. Surely, he'd been lost in the moment, for Sherlock to let John kiss down his chest in the first place. Two more inches, and John's tongue would have touched artificial skin. Time hung in stasis between them; the room, a little bubble in time.

   Sherlock's shirt, usually itself a second skin, hung slack from his immense, now cowed shoulders. The midnight black cotton perfectly concealed the damaged flesh hidden within. "John," the tall man pleaded, perched on his knees by the foot board. "Do you really think that this is necessary?" To the doctor, Sherlock appeared ready to bolt. 

  "I do, my love," John said firmly, tapping a bit of his inner captain. If he gave Sherlock any leeway, he knew that this painful tableau would drag on until it grew unbearable, and he'd eventually be forced to give in.

  "I see." Sherlock balanced, frozen, atop the mattress. "Right. You know that I have always relied on your judgement, John, when it comes to the subject of sentiment."

  To John's consternation, the detective's eyes had been rendered indistinct and colorless by the dull, yellow light from the hall. Neither man had suggested that the overhead lighting be used, hence the bedroom door still hung ajar. The little man nodded. "Good, Sherlock, that's... good.  _Christ_ , I understa - hell, no, Fuck! I really don't. I don't actually know what you're going through... what you went through, uh... back in Serbia. I can only imagine," John swallowed audibly, "that it's been a complete nightmare for you to cope with."

  The doctor crossed his arms to rub at his biceps.  _Sherlock would say that this action is an unconscious seeking of physical touch and/or comfort. As usual, my lovely detective is right. A bit awkward, given my ankle. Right now, I want_ _to look into his eyes so I can see him, at least. Do I dare turn on the side table lamp? I'm certainly not going to draw open the curtains._

  Many of the individuals with whom Sherlock had shared eye contact (to be honest, each and every individual; the man never passed on an opportunity to deduce) found his pale, piercing stare both impenetrable and unnerving. John, addicted to danger, had unabashedly locked eyes, having met Sherlock less than a full day before.

   Three hours later, John shot and killed a man to save his life. That night, after the Chinese, and his brother, and the giggling, detective still felt exposed, transparent, and worst of all, horribly vulnerable. In retrospect, Sherlock realized that he'd been _seen_ for the first time by somebody other than Mycroft.  John had seen Sherlock for the man he really was, past the narcissistic posing and sniping. John had seen, and accepted.

  John ached to repeat the magic.  _Open up, let me in. Let me see past the lies._

  The detective's irises had always reminded John of glass marbles, the type that he delighted in as a lad. An ancient, yellowed leather pouch of marbles had been given to him by his father, before alcohol had poisoned his heart.

  Young John's favorite marble had been an icy blue and sea green cat's eye, one which he'd oft held to the sun. John had carried the marble in his pocket for years - just the one. The rest of the marbles were either chipped or destroyed within weeks, unable to survive their new role as ammo for John's GI Joe. Only the one, special cat's eye lived on.

  "Sherlock, come here," the little man gestured, palms up and out. "Please. I promise, it's all going to turn out okay." In the shadows, the bags under his eyes became pronounced. John tried to mask his exhaustion, but hell. Who did he think he was fooling? "Come on, baby. Please come here," he entreated, wiggling his fingers enticingly. 

   Dreading the inevitable, Sherlock crossed the bed on his knees. His shirt swung to his sides as he shuffled, an intimation of what was to come. He couched forward and down, sinking into John's sheltering arms.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me for any typos!


	29. The Great Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We often believe, not on the basis of arguments, but on the basis of desire." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "Civilization began the first time an angry person cast a word instead of a rock." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go." - Neil Gaiman

   John parsed through Sherlock's rat's nest of hair with his fingers, determined to put it to rights. Nope, it was a no-go. Sighing, the doctor conceded, contenting himself by gathering the vicious snarls en masse and wedging them behind Sherlock's ears. At the very least, John had freed his lover's face from their weight. Without much humor, John realized he'd squashed Sherlock's curls into dreadlocks.  _How horribly apt._

   John had forgotten how claustrophobic long hair could be after years of severe military haircuts. 

  Waking up with a mouthful of hair is, as a rule, an extremely unpleasant experience - no matter how thick and lustrous, or gorgeous its owner. John's whole face had literally dripped with sticky perspiration the first time that the two shared a bed. The little man had spent a good thirty seconds spluttering about it before Sherlock snapped that John "Three Continents Watson" must have bedded _multiple,_ clingy female partners with long, flyaway hair. The doctor had shot back that it was true; many of his past lovers had worn their hair long. However, not a one had limbs and the grip of an orangutan, or had used John's face as his pillow. 

  Sherlock was going to have to deal.

  John needn't have bothered, however. The tall man sat taut, eyes squeezed shut and nostrils flaring...a soldier preparing for war. He seemed lost in memory; or perhaps was simply organizing his thoughts? Messy hair didn't factor in his tale one way or the other. Sherlock had bigger fish to fry. John redirected his nervous energy from hairdressing to brutally gnawing on his lips. Considering the direction this was going, his poor mouth would be chewed to a pulp.

  Sherlock stirred, taking a breath. "John, I - please give me a moment. I need...". Full stop.

   "Yeah, love. Not a problem. What do you need? Can I help?" the little man burbled hopefully. Really, though, what salvation could he offer? The devastating fallout of torture fell beyond this doctor's ability to heal. 

   John momentarily flashed back to that night, the very hour that Sherlock returned from the dead. He'd pulled a Lazarus, flaunted his brilliance, immediately re-opening the wound in John's heart. The detective's blithe "Great Reveal" froze John solid, soul stiffening into a state of glaciation. Crystalized ice replaced the blood in his veins. It wasn't one of the detective's more tactful deeds in his very long list of faux pas.

   The doctor collapsed to the floor.

   Later on, Sherlock quietly conceded that perhaps, another tactic might have been preferable. He'd paraded into the flat without even knocking, followed by a flamboyant swirl of that damn bloody coat. It had taken weeks for Sherlock to receive anything resembling absolution from his flatmate. Sherlock meekly succumbed, submitting to several weeks of John's hysterical diatribes and a month-long banishment from their flat. When John had finally relented and given the detective consent to return, Sherlock still been subjected to agonized looks and long, stiff awkward silences.

   Mrs. Hudson had slapped him in the face.

   As for Gavin... _bloody hell,_   _now Sherlock's got me doing it_ _! Greg!_ The detective blanched in the face of Lestrade's rage. Sherlock's large hands remained clutched at his sides whilst he submitted to Greg's passionate pounding. Two black eyes, a swollen lip, and a sore stomach later, Lestrade had given him a hug. Considering the ferocity of Lestrade's thrashing, it was a toss-up to decide which had hurt more.

   Yet, it was John's reaction that had shaken the detective's fragile mental health. Mycroft had worried  _constantly._ Closed-caption cameras blanketed the flat and all of Baker street. The surrounding drug-dealers received hefty stipends. In addition, he'd dropped half a stone... and resigned himself to keeping his mouth shut. After all, he'd not done the legwork.

  Sherlock never let on how he'd suffered during his foray. He'd painted his accomplishments as a magnum opus, a testament of his superior intellect and skill. What else could John do but agree? Bloody hell, Sherlock had "fallen" off a building to save his three friends. When the detective had returned, however, his accounting of events was eerily glossed over. In all fairness, John seldom spoke of his own.

  Irregardless, by the end of the second month, life reverted to their status quo - Sherlock being all mysterious with his cheekbones... and his collar turned up so he looked cool.  _How can he not know that he does that?_

  Once again, John followed behind poised with notebook and pencil. Once again, his gun wedged up against his backside, his fists curled and ready to fly.

  It was  _glorious,_ provided neither man reflected upon their mutual desires or spoke of the recent past. Even Mrs. Hudson resumed baking them scones, which Mycroft happily consumed by the dozen.

   And now, the illusion had shattered. The true "Great Reveal" reeked of dark humor, although, to be accurate, fingers in the carrot box already set the stage. Apparently, all John needed to do to set the ball rolling was to sustain a serious injury.  _"Isn't it ironic... don't you think?"_   _Bloody hell, if I severed my spinal cord I might just discover the cure for cancer!_

John yanked himself back to the present. "Sherlock, love," he crooned. "Come on. Let's get it over with. I don't want to make light of the situation, but this is like when you have to rip off a plaster. Will you do it slow, or get it over with in one go?"

  Sherlock lifted his head. "John...yes. Alright," he snuffled, "you are right. But - ".

  "But what, love?" More nonsensical crooning.

  "Don't freak out."

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be edited again after posting. I just wanted to get moving on the story.


	30. John Freaks out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes off his shirt.
> 
> Ack! This chapter killed me to write. (Author's note: the next installment might take a while, as now I am dead.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Blackbird singing in the dead of night,  
> Take these broken wings and learn to fly.  
> All your life  
> You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
> 
> ...All your life  
> You were only waiting for this moment to be free."
> 
> "Blackbird" (The White Album) - The Beatles, 1968

  Sherlock sat up. He shuffled back two feet and rose back up to his knees. His posture was one of a supplicant; he appeared stunted despite his body's long length. Honestly, Sherlock's demeanor was so out of character that John found himself backpedaling. Vehemently sweeping his tongue from from one side like a window washer, he sputtered, "Luh... _uhhh..._ Listen, Sherlock. Right. My love, if this is too much - Look. You don't..." 

  _"John._ With all due respect, I'm not an innocent," the lanky man groaned. "I'm capable of handling extreme stress."

   In direct opposition to his words, Sherlock tucked his head into the meat of his shoulder; hiding his face like a child. The detective's thin arms folded around his torso, posed much like an upside-down pretzel. His massive hands clung each opposite shoulder in a definitive, warding-off gesture. 

  "You know that I only _do_ what I am willing to do," he spoke, voice muffled into his armpit. "Since when have you _ever_ forced me to do anything, ever?" Sherlock spoke tetchily. He sunk down to sit on his bottom. The detective's words would have been more formidable if he wasn't hunching over like an injured gosling. 

   John tactfully smothered a relieved grin on the heels of the prickly retort. Despite his lover's seriously atypical posture, Sherlock's brain was still firing on all cylinders. More to the point, Sherlock was inhabiting his body. He'd not wandered off to the recesses of his mind palace. "Yeah. Right. Sorry," John conceded, "I'm not trying to coddle you, it's just a fucking delicate situation, yeah? I don't want - to hurt you."

  Sherlock responded noisily, practically sniffing all the room's air up his nose. He looked the better for it, oxygen rushing from lungs to brain. The detective's face even colored up a bit; well, at least the part that was visible.

  A pretty, pink flush now stained the whole of his cheek. John waited, afraid to say anything that might hinder Sherlock's recovery. The little man sat, and waited, and watched. Sherlock lifted his head. He proceeded to uncurl his arms, straighten his spine, and stick out his chin like a soldier. 

  "Believe me when I tell you, John, that what you're doing for me is not harmful." Sherlock met his flatmate's blue eyes with his own. The detective's eyes were so bloodshot John briefly wondered if his lover had gotten high whilst wandering the streets. No, no evidence of that, thank God. "I know what it is to be intentionally hurt. I experienced more... pain, agony, what have you, than I thought was physically possible to suffer and still live."

  John swallowed hard, gritting his teeth against each wave of helpless fury inundating his body. "Yes. Right." His fingernails cut into the thin skin of his palms. The pain was grounding.

  "This... here," the detective swept his arms wide as if catching an over-sized beach ball, "Is excruciating, yes." Sherlock leaned back to sit on his knees. "But, I understand that what you are doing is in in my best interest. It's... bloody hell. Being _honest,_ John. Revealing my secrets - that's what hurts." The detective dropped his arms, desperate to elaborate as John's face turned painfully stricken.

  "No, wait. John. That came out wrong. You don't understand. This, this _vexation_  isn't a result of your efforts. This is," Sherlock grimaced, his teeth showing, "hard for multiple reasons, and not one of them has anything _at all_ to do with you. John," he lamented, mouth suddenly snapping shut and locked tight. If possible, Sherlock's face reflected even more misery. He let fly with a loud, gusty sigh.

  Scrubbing a long hand over his chest, the detective twisted his mouth into a perverse approximation of a smile... possibly a misguided attempt for some levity? 

  "The moment I left the bloody continent, and the  _therapy -_ John,that god-awful rehab facility-slash-madhouse Mycroft forced me into might has well have had "BEDLAM" carved over the door - I haven't thought back even once."

  "What?" John uttered, bemused. "How can you not have gone over it in your head?" His eyes lit up. "Did you delete it?"

   Sherlock made a moue. "No, wish that I could. Sadly, I've come to realize that certain things cannot be forgotten, no matter how hard someone might try. I pushed it away as much as I could. It didn't work."

   "You sure fooled me, then," John snorted. "You walked back in that door like a whirlwind, Sherlock, and then you acted surprised that I didn't run about dusting off your chair and turning on the kettle."

   "Yes," the tall man said guiltily. "I understand now how that must have looked, how insensitive I was to what you'd been through."

   "Tosh," John flipped a hand. "What happened to me was a cake walk. Don't stop. Keep talking." He re-fluffed the pillow and adjusted his leg.

   "I can only imagine how my behavior has been... perceived and interpreted." Sherlock peered into John's eyes with such wretchedness that the doctor felt his heart skip a beat. "When I have been at my most insufferable, John; that's when I have been at my worst as far as my ability to cope. I want to be clear on this point."

   "Sherlock..." John groaned. "I wish you had told me. I could only speculate on what happened during your time away, but then, I didn't really ask about it when you came back, did I?" He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, whispering "I'm so fucking sorry I didn't see it, your suffering. It must have been right there in front of me. I thought you were being a prat."

  "John, I am sorry," Sherlock breathed at the edge of John's hearing, not really absorbing John's words. "Please forgive me my unkind behavior, my callousness. The way I came back was unfair. It was cruel."

  _Well... shit._ "Sherlock, I can't do this right now, yeah?" Silvered blonde hair concealed John's face, and he wanted to keep it that way. "Let's deal with one thing at a time. We're talking about you. I want to  _help_ you, love. Let's focus on you."

  "You are, John, trust me... God knows I trust you. Even if - hell, John. My brain is mired down with all these  _emotions._ I am finding most difficult to access the appropriate language - the  _words,_ John. I can't find the words!"

  "Oh, love. My lovely man. It's fine, what you're doing," the little man crooned, arching up. 

  Stretching out his arms once again, Sherlock ranted, volume rising. "That's just it, John. I don't have the words, the aptitude, the talent for proper interpersonal communication. That's why I couldn't tell you, why I could never tell you!" he finished up with a howl.

  "Shush! It's all fine!" John said, somewhat alarmed at Sherlock's explosion.

  "John, stop shushing me, you're acting like Mycroft!" the detective snapped. The conversation lapsed into silence. Both men needed a respite. Eventually, Sherlock continued. "John. Everything I've ever worked for, every case, and experiment, and adventure. All of it," Sherlock gestured about. "The flat, my life, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade; hell, yes, even Mycroft and my parents... none of it matters to me if I lose you. I'll do whatever it is that you want. I will show you my scars."

   John gaped. "Sherlock. I'm _already_ here, aren't I? Just where do you think I would go?" His blue eyes shot sparks. "I am  _here_ , I am staying, I luuuh -  _I love you,_ you idiot, which means, if you are not ready - ."

  Sherlock lunged forward and gripped both of John's forearms. His hands clutched John so tightly they caused more than a little discomfort. The pain didn't even register. John just let Sherlock squeeze and squeeze, cutting off the circulation to his hands. His fingers throbbed with the mounting pressure of trapped blood; yet, all John could think about was how lucky he was that this marvelous man still living - in their flat, in his life, on the planet. 

_Sherlock._

"John," the tall man whispered, "I am ready." 

   "Sherlock. I'm here. I'm here, love," John's throat closed up, distorting his voice. Croaky with emotion, he murmured words of encouragement and devotion as Sherlock released his forearms and instead, clenched at his own shirttails. John's hands prickled and ached from the reestablished blood flow. "I love you, and I'm staying as long as you want me." Adrenalin rushed through his body in such a torrent that he felt the room spin.

   "Mmmm, mind your words, John, for I mean to keep you forever." Slowly, Sherlock maneuvered one shoulder, and then the other from his shirt. Holding John's eyes with his own, the detective let the black cotton slip down the length of his arms. It fell in a silent pile around his hips. The detective grunted irritably, tossing the expensive shirt to the floor like so much detritus.

  John sat, barely breathing.  _This is so. What Sherlock is doing is so BIG, he's so vulnerable and exposed, and I -_

  In the low light, the detective's torso was flawless. Sherlock twisted deliberately to his left, than his right, allowing John to inspect him. It was impossible to tell where Sherlock ended and silicone began. Bemused, the little man squinted, scanning his lover's long body. Whomever Mycroft had contracted to create this illusion must have been a miracle worker. John merely shook his head, befuddled. His dark eyes flipped back up to Sherlock's in confusion.

  "Wait," Sherlock commanded. He leaned over to switch on the lamp. The artificial glow caused them to wince, despite it being a low-wattage bulb. John hadn't realized just how gloomy the bedroom had been. "Watch," the detective flatly intoned. "Observe the 'magic'," he spat in revulsion, "of Mycroft."

  Pressing his right hand into service, Sherlock ran the flat of his palm to the hollow just below his left deltoid. One the third swipe up to his shoulder, John heard himself choke out a cry. A thin, colorless roll of silicone came forth out of nowhere. As the tall man doggedly repeated his actions, (rotating his arm for easier access), a thin circle of rubber now demarcated the border between real skin and... not real skin. 

    _This is bloody disturbing._ The "not skin" matched the tone and surface texture of Sherlock's epidermis in every conceivable way. For all John could tell, his lover had slipped an elastic band onto his bicep as a mean-spirited joke. A random memory shot into John's conscious mind; no, not random, but incredibly apt. "Is this - did you use something like this when you faked your... you know. When you  _died_ _?_ Like, to mimic the wound on your forehead?"

   The detective froze. Sometimes snapped from within.

  "Damn it! Sherlock, forget that. Shit, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," John whined. He surged closer, ignoring the jolt of pain shooting up his left calf. The doctor pushed his compact frame up against Sherlock's as much as he could,  _stupid cunting boot_ getting in the way. John glued his hands onto Sherlock's face, actually squishing his cheeks with the pressure his fingers exerted. Sherlock's eyes were void of all emotion, but John's own body shook with the ferocity of his lover's trembling.

    "Sherlock, please, I'm so sorry. I am so stupid, please, Sherlock!" John mentally kicked himself for being such a stupid twat. Sherlock was at his most vulnerable right now, and what had he done but drive Sherlock straight over the edge? 

   John most definitely freaked out.

    

 

  

  

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If anyone is interested, or really bored, or both:
> 
> www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQZZGyIHcbc (how a mould is made)
> 
> www.youtube.com/watch?v=nff6gZ6NXLc (how a cast silicone skin is applied)
> 
> www.youtube.com/watch?v=_uw_CFqx664 (how a cast silicone special effect is removed)


	31. Unveiling the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally, finally, Sherlock shows John his scars.
> 
> An angst-o-rama, folks. I have absolutely no idea why this story took the direction it did, I really don't. Perhaps I should seek psychoanalysis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Repression is a seamless garment..." - Salmon Rushdie, Shame*
> 
> "Self-repression...costs you all the beauty of the world in exchange for a prison of comfort." - Vironika Tugaleva
> 
> “Memory repression thrives in shame, secrecy, and shock." -Renee Fredrickson*

  Sherlock's racking tremors heightened until his body lurched forward and aft. As a doctor, John was disturbed by the mindlessness of his rocking. In some far corner of his mind, John caught the echo of a distorted overhead announcement, blaring "Ladies and gentlemen,  Sherlock... has left the building." 

   Sherlock's agitated pitching was so violent that John was carried along. The little man resembled nothing so much as a child receiving a horsey ride...unwillingly. John had maneuvered one swift hand under each of Sherlock's armpits, anchoring their bodies together. As the doctor's grip tightened, the detective's body slowly gentled, muscles eased. John cautiously reigned Sherlock in, taking the lead in their dance. Nonsense words, soothing nothings, heedlessly flew from his lips. 

   Rubbing his lover's back was a surreal experience. John encircled Sherlock's body as best he was able, stroking the whole of his person. This: false, silicone skin enveloping an expansive plain of ruined flesh. The elastomer blended perfectly, color married to color... even the hue of the nipples reflected the pink of his lips. If Sherlock hadn't raised up one portion, the mock skin wouldn't have registered at all. Except, when John's hands touched his body. It's cool, hairless surface radiated none of Sherlock's true warmth. Whilst smooth, it maintained a barely-there drag of friction when caressed by the (real) skin of his fingers.  

  The very idea made John's skin crawl.

  ********************

  At only one other time in his life had John suffered such a sense of impotence; the day that he'd watched his best friend die.  _No! No, he didn't die, moron. He was never even hurt, and you know it, merely an ingenious illusion of death._ It was such a cruel day, a day that saw more than one death. 

_"It's a trick, just a magic trick."_

Why in God's name had he brought it up _now?_ What gain was there in rehashing the past? Especially - especially this particular bit of the past! John had long ago recognized the futility of wanting closure - and yet. A significant part of his own self had shattered that day and still ached for want of mending. All forgiveness aside, the little man still suffered nightmares; a macabre, 3 a.m. special feature.** 

   The nightmare ran through his unconscious mind like a looping reel of film, set in motion as Sherlock tosses his phone. And then, Sherlock leaps from the roof, arms and legs pinwheeling nonsensically. Next, _every single damn night,_  God help him, John heard that infernal, wet smacking sound that a body emits during a high-impact collision with pavement. Again, and again - and _again._  

_*SMACK*_

   Now, comes the close-up, live-action shot of "John Watson, the Incompetent Flatmate"; the doctor who fails to save his friend's life. Watch him now, folks, feebly struggling against the force of constraining hands, seeking Sherlock's mutilated form amidst the chaos of people and trolley wheels. Listen to the doctor's wobbly voice calling out. Impotent. Weak. John spies his body and goes still.

   There, there he is. John sees pale, dead sightless eyes framed by red ribbons of blood. Sherlock has no pulse, his arm limp and loose as a dead fish. Hands pull John away from the body, and the doctor is too debilitated to stop them.

   _*SMACK*_ The back of Sherlock's hand hits the pavement, again.

   John shook himself with a grunt. _Now is not the time. Knock this fucking shit off!_

  "Sherlock, Sherlock.  _Hey!_  Easy, love. I've got you. I've got you. Now, shhhhh..." Placing small but strong hand on each shoulder, John ignored the cool, plastic texture. It didn't matter; this was Sherlock, all of Sherlock. He would take whatever he was given, and cherish each moment in time. The doctor's left thumb ran up against the rolled up lip of the silicone. John refrained from flipping it up further, but he wanted to. He wanted to tear it away and free Sherlock from its suffocating embrace.

   In minute increments, John lured Sherlock out of his head. "Easy. Easy, love...that's it." Sherlock's shivering gentled, yet it's place rose a litany of whimpers, harsh breathing and moans. John wasn't sure if this was a step forward in his lover's recovery, or simply a different manifestation of upset. He didn't identify either behavior as a normal one for Sherlock, hell,  _nothing_ about this was normal. If this was Sherlock after a year of intensive treatment, Christ Almighty, what had Mycroft beheld during the extrication of his brother in Serbia? John really, _really_ had no interest in knowing.

  "Jo - John. John," the name spilled from Sherlock's lips like a prayer, reverent and full of awe. The man's big head creaked upward, a bone in his neck cracking with a loud pop. Sherlock's face shone from its sticky veneer of tears and sweat. "John." He tilted back down to bump noses with the doctor, rolling their foreheads together.

  "Heeeey, love," John murmured in relief. "Good to have you back." He planted precise, tiny kisses across Sherlock's face and under the line of his jaw. "Mmm. You taste salty."

   Sherlock snorted, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "John," he lamented, "that's disgusting." 

  "No, it's not. It's fine, really," John smirked. "You know what I always say, yeah?" He opened his mouth and together, they said, "It's all good." The detective's words came out croaky, but strong. John fought the temptation to giggle, knowing that it would come across more hysterical than amused. 

  "I'm sorry, John. I am...different, now. I'm not strong."

  "That's bollocks, Sherlock, and you know it. And, I'm sorry, too. I'm going to fuck this up, love," John confessed.

   Sherlock opened his mouth in protest, but John cut him off with a hand.

   "No," he said, fist raised with index finger up in salute, "you need to hear this. Now," the doctor broke off, arranging his thoughts. "I've been in a war. I've seen shit that wakes me up screaming, as you've heard in times past, yeah?" Rubbing his lips, John continued. "But now, _you._ You fought a war, fought the good fight just like I did. The difference is, Sherlock, that I fought in a unit. I had mates. I had back-up. I had support. Hell, I had a whole _country!_  No matter what, I was never alone."

   Sherlock snuffled, peering at John from under wet lashes. His eyes glittered, blinding white light off the ocean. 

   "Sherlock...you were. You were an army of one. You didn't have anyone to help or guide your decisions. I don't," the little man hesitated in a futile effort to regain composure. "I believe that, if I were in your shoes...that I would have given up."

    Now, Sherlock managed a fierce "No!" before John covered the detective's mouth with his palm. The tall man loomed, glaring at the ex-soldier with a muffled, "Mmmph!" It was ludicrous for John to doubt his own strength. That was ridiculous, that was...

    _"You,_ my love, are amazing. Bloody hell, keep it shut and just listen!" John fumed, dropping his hand, whilst his lover bobbed his chin like a guppy. "I'm going to say the wrong things, because I don't _know_ how it was. I won't even be able to help it, I'm going to hurt you."

   Sherlock's face turned livid with fury. Again, he opened his mouth.   

   "Sherlock! Shut. The fuck. _Up!_ And let me finish. This isn't a 'Let's make John feel less like an imbecile now that we've shagged' moment. This is a 'I'm going to shut the fuck up and let John finish a sentence' moment. Alright, you bloody git?" John's own face reddened.

   Sherlock's eyes glowed with radioactive malice. Nevertheless, he flapped a large hand in the air in a show of acquiescence. John gazed fixedly at Sherlock, electrified by the strange light emanating from his lover's strange eyes. Amazing, really, the shift from frozen to furious in an instant.  _I am definitely in over my head._

   "Right. Okay. Sherlock, please, I - shit, I don't know what I am doing, here. I mean, you've always been a bit of a mystery to me. In fact, you've purposefully cultivated that air of inscrutability. It's who you are." When Sherlock cocked his head sideways, John twirled his hand. "Remember, cheekbones? All those years ago, when I commented on how you flip up your collar to look cool?"

   "I don't do that," Sherlock protested.

   Snorting, the doctor said, "Yeah, heard that one already. Bollocks. You like it. The point is - the point is, Sherlock, that whilst I can say for certain that I know  _most_ of you, I don't know  _all_ of you. Savvy?"

   Sherlock shook his head, looking bemused.

   John sighed. "Because you've had experiences that you've kept mum about, for obvious reasons...shit, Sherlock. I'm going to say things and do things that trigger you, even if it's not on purpose." If Sherlock's eyes were sun off the ocean, John's were the blue-black depths of the Mariana Trench. "I won't mean to, and I'm going to feel bloody awful about it every damn time it happens." He sniffed. "But it will happen."

   Pale eyes flickered about the arc of John's face, considering. "Alright. Unfortunately, I must agree. My emotions are tenuous at best, now that I've admitted to having them. But, it was true, what I said. I flew back to London, and never looked back."

    "But, you didn't forget," the doctor interjected.

    "No. Tragically, I could not. Dreams, and such. But, in order to regain my life, to even have a life, I had to hold secrets quite close to my heart. Hence...the costume. The 'vest'. An alternate skin, as it were," Sherlock mused, eyes darting. "Along with a fabulous story - and a good coat."

    "And a short friend," John quipped.

    "Correct," the genius smirked. "And as I, in turn, am rather sensitive on the matter of certain subjects. I might - get a bit overwhelmed," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "As I've so recently demonstrated. But, John." Leaning inwards until nose met with nose, Sherlock whispered, "It will never be your fault. It is what it is. All of this...he gestured to himself, "is what Moriarty left behind."

    "Shit on that, love. You are a genius, you are brilliant. You are my lover and best friend," John scowled, poking Sherlock's stomach. "Don't you forget that, no matter what stupid, thoughtless thing comes out of my mouth."

    Sherlock made a moue. "Fine. It's true, I am brilliant." His brows lifted and rolled, left to right. "But, you are my beacon of light. I wouldn't have made it if you hadn't forgiven me and let me back into your life."

    John's chin unexpectedly dropped to his chest.

   "John?" Sherlock's voice wobbled uncertainly.

   "Yes, Sherlock," John smiled wanly, head wrenching back up. "It's just a lot, yeah? "

   "Yes."

   "Well, then okay," the doctor nodded. "We're all agreed on the fact that you and I are facing a bit of a mess." John wincing, added, "I am not implying that _you_ are the mess... Jesus, Sherlock. I'm doing it again." His small hands clenched Sherlock's back.

   "Shush. Enough talk," Sherlock murmured lovingly. "Ease up, so I can move back."

   "Err...right. Sorry."

   "Too many words, John. Save them for your blog," the detective flashed the ghost of a smile. Scooting back, Sherlock resumed his earlier stance. Hand returning to bicep, Sherlock shed the simulacrum; his beautiful face even whiter than milk.

 *************

   If simply touching Sherlock's fake skin appalled John, being witness to it's removal was horrific. The thing was thick, and slightly translucent around the edges. It had been strategically tinted to match Sherlock's coloring. So bizarre, this: a Sherlock-shaped casing of plastic. John felt his gorge rise, quickly swallowing it back down. 

   Sherlock - peeling skin like a banana. Well, something that very much  _looked_ like skin. John swallowed harder, this time tasting the sick.  _I'm bloody well coming unhinged._

   John doubled back to Afghanistan; to the make-shift hospital in Helmand. By the time he'd been shot, the army surgeon had operated on multiple...no, hundreds of burn victims. IED's, mortar rounds, gas explosions, overturned Humvees, even plain, old-fashioned house fires... you name it, he'd been witness to the ruination extremely high temperatures caused. The doctor dearly wished that he hadn't. Dearly.

  Treatment involved days, and/or weeks of surgical debridement. Necrotic tissues must be physically cut from the body to decrease the risk of sepsis. The process was brutal, revolting, and the aftermath - horrifically painful. In the most severe cases, the doctor cut out decimated skin, strips of muscle, and bone. Peeling off skin that looked more like leather, John never got over the sight. And if the skins grafts weren't healthy enough to take...

  In Sherlock's case, the situation was reversed. If anything, the effect struck John as even more gruesome. He watched as his lover, a man he'd always considered ridiculously gorgeous, reveal an utter ruin of flesh, his true, unmasked body. John could not help it. He struggled to the loo and was sick.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Taken out of context, but appropriate for my story line.
> 
> **In case this is an Americanism (I really have no idea one way or the other), a "special feature" is a film that, well...is special, like one-time viewing, or an addendum to the main feature which is not generally shown.


	32. Healing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what it says on the box.
> 
> Shall we ring in the new year with angst, excessive mood swings and redundant falls to the floor? Oh, why not. 
> 
> Consensual canoodling to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you.  
> You know me.  
> One thing I can tell you is you got to be free.  
> Come together,  
> Right now,  
> Over me
> 
> The Beatles, "Come Together"

 "Sherlock," John croaked from the claustrophobic confines of the en suite . "Please - I'm so sorry. Sherlock, I - shit. _Jesus Christ!"_ The small man fought to regain self-control even as he hunkered over the toilet. John had never, ever felt so ashamed in his life, which was saying something. Really.

  After what felt like an eternity, John's stomach had expelled all its contents, down to bile, spittle and all. Unfortunately, his autonomic nervous system wasn't paying the slightest attention. Abdominal muscles spasmed in hateful mutiny, emotional turmoil now running the show. The little man heaved so intensely and often John's oxygen intake decreased. Brilliant, of course his body thought it time for a new psychosomatic condition.

  "Sherlock!" John bawled, fighting against his body to get his words out. "It's not what you think. I'm not...Please," he all but choked, coughing until red in the face. "It's not because of you that I - ". And again, another paralyzing bout of gagging frustrated John's efforts to explain. "Fuck!"

   Again, he tried. "This isn't - ," John inexplicably stilled, a sense of alarm commanding quiet. John strained to identify his source of disquiet by shifting into military mode. Tilting his head at a precise 45-degree angle, John scanned the flat left onto right; a flesh-and-blood radar array. Holding his breath, John's ears pricked in anxious anticipation of something horrible. 

 _There._  John caught a series of furtive shuffling and soft thumps to his right from the bedroom. Sherlock was moving around.  _Shit._   _Shit, shit, shit._ _What the fuck is Sherlock doing in there? Is he dressing..._  John heard a soft click, and then another, followed by a squeak from the mattress. _Was that "click" one of the heels of his shoes? Shit! Sherlock's making ready to leave!_

  John scrubbed his face dry with a forearm, dismissing the foul taste on his tongue. He needed to get himself sorted  _now_ before Sherlock could do something stupid. In a knee-jerk reaction fueled by mind-boggling panic, John made to get to his feet. In the blink of an eye, pain zinged from his toes to the very tip-top of John's head. 

  He toppled, boneless as a rag doll on his side. A second influx of agony had robbed John of the functional use of his vocal cords, his body now in revolt. John screamed in mute fury, more at his own idiocy than the pain. He'd committed one mistake after the next after the next...  _So bloody stupid!_  Sherlock, as always, was right; Dr. John Watson's logic was faulty.

  The small man wondered, although not really concerned at this point, if he'd dislodged one of the screws (or two) from the bone. _Is this becoming my modus operandi -_ _falling apart at the seams? Being incredibly stupid? Crushing the man that I love?_  John thought bleakly.  _I'm not the man I once was. Maybe I was never worthy in the first place._

  John's mind now meandered in a crazily circuitous route down memory lane, cataloging his many mistakes. He didn't care to get up; there was no need. Sherlock had left, the doctor was sure of it. And, if even he was still hear, then John would tell him to go. A barmy git like himself would only muck things up further and cause Sherlock further distress. 

  All because of one rat. Why had he cried foul in the first place?  _So incredibly stupid._

  Rolling his head in frustration, John caught something strange at the edge of his peripheral vision. Twisting his head clumsily, the little man honed in for a better look-see. A long, spotty line of some black, unsavory material ran between the legs of the tub.

 _Huh. Well, that's disgusting._   _I should really start cleaning with bleach. Black mould. Yeah, look. Blimey, it runs all around the baseboards,_ _quite disgusting. Mrs. Hudson shouldn't even come up here until it's gone, considering her advanced age._

_On second thought -_

  John now listlessly debated the likelihood that this particular patch of jeopardous fungi was a component in another experiment. It was that, or the result of shoddy housework. Either way, it didn't matter, black mould posed a serious heath hazard.  _Note to self: check in with Sherlock before bathing said biological hazard in bleach, and the kick his arse if it is._

 John expelled a woeful moan. _I need to get up. I can't fucking lie here forever._

   Yet, a sense of foreboding distracted him, niggling and highly unpleasant. Something. Something dredged up from his memory. Something... something. Some  _thing,_  familiar and intimate weaseled into John's conscious brain. Severe pain. The inability to function as required. The awareness of coming full-circle.

 _This._ What?

 _What?_ A barrage of "fight or flight" chemicals crashed into John's bloodstream like a lorry blindsiding a cab.  

 **********

    _Snapshot images: insanely red, unconscionably red, unreasonably red blood. Overkill, really, this quantity of obscenely red blood. The red blood in question spraying hot from a hole in his camo - no - spraying from a hole in his shoulder._

_**Snap** - Capt. Watson, blank-eyed and staring, fighting for footing in the loose blowing, razor-sharp, heavy, hard sand. Sand adhering to his wound as it spins in the draw of the rotors. His own blood is spilling. Too much blood, spilling in drops onto scalding hot dirt. _

_**Snap**  - Bending down, fuck the pain. Rustling in his pack for more gauze. This kid is a fuck of a bleeder. Pneumothorax, probably - considering the placement, another two hits to the gut. Perforated SI, pinkish-grey coil poking through, shrapnel in the face, and...no pulse._

_**Snap** - Move it, Watson. Three squadies yet to be loaded and one baby-faced, blonde DOA. Heart beating too fast, getting dizzy._

_(don't lose focus don't think about that don't think about a freshly dead man-child)_

_**Snap** - I'm fucking on duty. I do NOT have time for this shit._

_For fucks sake, Watson, GET UP!_

 *********** 

  The wan amber light from the overhead fixtures all but disappeared behind the bulk of a stretched-out, towering figure.  _It's just like when clouds cover up the sun...all the light goes away._ John squinted, peering up at the person.  _Shit! That's Sherlock. Oh my God, he's okay, he didn't leave (me) the flat after all._

  The doctor's condition was flagging. What John desperately desired to do (i.e. to get off the goddamn motherfucking floor and _fix_ this, you inconsiderate twat!) ran completely at odds with what his sorry carcass was physically capable of doing. Flashbacks sucked the ever-loving life from John's soul, never mind his being bombarded by a arsenal of unpleasant emotions. Having run the gauntlet from ecstatic to tragic in the space of twelve measly hours, he was tapped. For fuck's sake, he was male...and British! British  _and_ male - stiff upper lip, and all that. People just didn't _do_ things like this in the Commonwealth.

  First things first. Right - off the floor. 

  Using elbows for oars, John rowed aft, angling to reach the side of the tub. He tried not to remember that he had an audience. The little man's tactic proved useful. Unfortunately, though, John's spacial awareness had gone bye-bye and his skull rammed the porcelain with a loud thunk. Frustrated, furious, and now beyond reason, John roared and slammed his head backwards one...two...three times before throwing in the towel; resting his weight against the unyielding surface. 

   _All this shit from one fucking, filthy, flea-ridden, greasy black rat. Wait...weren't they the carriers of Plague? Beholders of Black Death, indeed._

_Fucking hell. I haven't had a flashback since...fuck, since Sherlock came back. Damn. This was a bad one._

  Sherlock stood coiled tight as a spring, shirt back on but unbuttoned. A stripe of chalky-white skin bisected his shirt like a tie. "Stop it, John!" Sherlock snapped, affronted. "If I'm not mistaken, I've just provided you with an appropriately gruesome example of the aftermath of self injury - or am I so sorely mistaken?" John's ash-blonde hair tumbled as he nodded, and then rolled his head side-to-side. For good measure, the little man finished up with a shrug. 

 "John?" Sherlock muttered. "This needs to stop, this..." he whirled his hands in the air, the universal symbol for clusterfuck. "Bloody hell, John. We have to figure this out. Do you wish to speak here, or may we move to a more suitable location?"

 "Love, I'm _so...shit._ Sherlock, can I - ," John hitched, "is it still okay to call you that...I mean, call you love? I've - shit. I can't even find the words! My head is - damn it, I've gone mental. I can't think!" 

  "John," Sherlock groaned helplessly. "Of _course_ you can still call me love, or sweetums, or crumpet, or sugarlips, or sweetcheeks - what have you. John. Choose whatever ridiculously saccharine moniker you fancy." The silliness of his sentiment belied the fury in his chest at John's agonized demeanor. There'd been enough tragedy in their lives already, thank you very much.

  "Whatever you want, John," the tall man repeated. Desiring to ease the stifling tension between them, Sherlock reached for a little levity. "And for all that is good and holy, please stop apologizing. I believe Mycroft's initial reaction to my scars was far worse than yours." 

   Disbelief flashed over John's rounded face. He twisted his mouth bitterly, slightly hurt. Did Sherlock consider him to be so naive that's he'd blindly accept this untruth? Seriously?! On a scale of 1-100, 100 being the most insensitive response possible, his reaction scored over 1,000. Say what you what about Mycroft, the man  _was_ a diplomat. John refused to be pandered to like an...idiot.

  Eyeing John cautiously, Sherlock stepped closer. He carefully crouched down in the tiny square foot of space between his lover and the sink, precariously balanced on the balls of his feet. John held out his hand in repentance, palm upwards and trembling fiercely. Sherlock placed his own gargantuan palm on top and proceeded to thread their fingers snugly together to form a single unit. The detective brushed his lips over John's knuckles, anointing each joint with a soap-bubble soft kiss. "John," Sherlock breathed in despair, "This sounds ridiculous, coming from me, that is, but you have to stop being so impulsive. You're going to end up breaking your neck at the rate you're going."

  John choked out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, right, coming from you, you tit. Serves me right if I did, through."  

  "Nonsense, John, what happened with your body was normal. They only response to my... _injuries_ that would have hurt me would be indifference, or distain. As you are empathetic to the core, virtually incapable of exhibiting either behavior in the face of grave injury I expected nothing less than what you did. To be honest, John, the knowledge of how my scars would effect you was a decidedly strong factor in not revealing them in the first place."

   "Mmmm."

  Not good. No, both of them, not so good. Keeping John's hand captive, Sherlock shifted his balance to plop down hard on his bum. The men rested shoulder to shoulder up against the tub. The twisted shame in John's countenance eased up a little, although Sherlock understood that this was undoubtedly due to fatigue rather than catharsis. John was a caregiver by nature, a desire running deep in his bones.

  "What are we doing here, John?" the detective's deep voice rumbled. The doctor shrugged one shoulder, dejected. "John. The last few hours have been difficult as it is. Please don't shut me out, I'll go mad."

  "To be honest, Sherlock," John ejected, "I don't even know how to answer that. But  _please_ ," he cried, "My love, please believe me when I say that the sight of your scars isn't that which made me vomit. Something - shit. I became ill in the knowledge that I wasn't there to protect you. God, you were there all alone."

  "Surely...John, you weren't there to _protect me_ because I was dead! I was _dead,_ John, and we haven't ever addressed what you had to cope with after being forced to witness my suicide!"

   "Sherlock, _DON'T!"_

  "Not exactly dereliction of duty on your part now, was it?" Sherlock snorted, indignant. "What I faced, John, observing the depths to which humans sink, the selfishness and the greed and the evil! I can unequivicably state that I much preferred you safe here in London."

   The little man turned away.

   "Christ, what a bloody lark this has turned out to be," Sherlock mused. "Here we are, two grown men on the floor of the loo."

   "Mmmm."

   "In addition, the triggering of your autonomic nervous system is from an unexpected source of stress is normal, and quite frankly, expected by myself. Between my...the body scars, burns and - "

   "Stop!"

   "Rude. Shut up and let me finish!" Ironically enough, Sherlock's brain was stalled out. Spending one's year in a madhouse might be confusing at best, and yet some good had come of it.

  He had finally accepted the validity of emotion. Because, Sherlock Holmes (sociopath to the stars) experienced emotions, strong emotions, acknowledging them did have it's benefits. A new sense of humanity, perhaps, which provided the foundation on which he'd rebuilt.

   "Wait," Sherlock blurted. "Something else. You experienced a second full-bodied event just now, completely separate from vomiting. Yes, I can see." He spun closer to John, peering around John's turned body for a second look. "Your face is different, not simply because of illness."

   "Stop."

  "Yes, a sudden shock can and will upset the average person's gastrointestinal tract and thereby trigger a bout of nausea, but no. Something else," Sherlock deduced. He peered down at John and crinkled his nose. "Did you - oh, yes. Oh, John, now I see." 

  "No, Sherlock. Plain and simple, _hell_ no."

  "Indeed," he agreed. "Come on. My arse is freezing. And what in God's name, excuse me,  _is_ that substance growing under the tub? I put my arm under that thing for you."  He smirked in wry amusement, although wearied beyond all reason. "You're shirking your duty as house physician."

  "Blow me," John sniped.

   Having the benefit of long arms and a strong back, Sherlock artfully maneuvered John's body out of the narrow space without further incident. Once freed, John felt flushed from the gentleness of his touch.

  John hacked, ineffectively attempting to rid his throat of the sour, cloying mucus. "Wait, John," Sherlock murmured. "Let's get you off of this floor, and back in my bed. After that I will get you some water." 

    This being the umteenth extrication of his blogger through a doorway, John's extraction went smoothly. What followed this was anybody's guess.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG...was this an absolute pain in the ass to write (yes, as an American, I have an ass, not an arse). Sorry it took so darn long. I did so many rewrites that I ended up saving the stuff I took out in case I can use it somewhere else. 
> 
> Whew, now I am pooped (worn out).
> 
> Hmmm. I'm back to excessive use of hyphens. In addition, I hope none of the story was redundant. Multiple rewriting and all that. Please feel free to point out any mistakes.


	33. Metaphors Make Poor Bedmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock waxes poetic. Very short chapter...sorry. John isn't the only one who's exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Analogies, it is true, decide nothing, but they can make one feel more at home." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "I am no longer afraid to say anything." - Anna Freud

* * *

  "Influenza, John. That's what we have," Sherlock murmured, as he stood fiddling with the beyond-maligned bedding.

  "What?" John squawked. "I'm not ill - even if I was sick in the loo. I lost it  because I - wait, are _you_ ill?" He reached up, slapping a palm against Sherlock's forehead, scrutinizing two absolutely bloodshot, red-rimmed gorgeous silvered eyes.

  The detective shook his head, irritated at his own inability to communicate _feelings._ Even in his own mind, he regarded the very idea with derisive suspicion.  _Sentiment. Blech!_  John's hand stuck like glue to Sherlock's head, going along for the ride.

  Finally, finished with the assessment and coming up nil (no fever, despite having cheeks ruddy red from prolonged weeping, said congestion explained by the same), John scrunched up his nose whilst surreptitiously plumping the pillows. Being a genius doesn't advance one's ability to fluff.

   "Love, I am far too past my normal mental capacity to understand what you're getting at. Kindly rephrase what you meant?" He dropped his eyes to his hands, thereby avoiding the sight of Sherlock's newly donned shirt. John's stomach still roiled in upset, and his head was starting to ache. He had no interest in a repeat performance. He felt desperate for that promised glass of water. He licked his dry lips.

   "Influenza, John. An insidious virus, yes? It regularly strikes people who on the surface appear perfectly healthy, but in actuality are physically vulnerable." Sherlock ended the speech with a flourish, pirouetting his arms between their bodies.

   John blinked slowly, now rubbing his temples with stiff fingers. "Aaaand...this relates to us how?" He exhibited all of the signs a man at the end of his rope. "We're not sick. Neither of us are immunologically compromised. I'm sorry, my love. I don't get it."

   Sherlock carelessly flopped down on the bed, grimacing at his lover's pained wince. "Sorry, John, you know I'm good at this thing." His long face drooped into a scowl. Humming softly, he said, "It's like this. We've seemed fine, at the top of our game. I'm on fire, intellectually speaking. And you, John? Choosing to come back to be my sidekiii... _uhhhh..._ at my side doing the Work? Taking up the blog? Being my friend," Sherlock smiled shyly, "and now, my lover.

    The detective paused. Whatever he saw made his face lighten up, despite the unconscious faux pas.

   "Sherlock, is this an attempt at a metaphor? Because otherwise, you have lost me," John groaned. He checked his watch for the time. One more hour until narcotics were medically prudent. He shoved the Union Jack under his left buttock.

   "YES! Yes, a metaphor. John, as always, you are my conductor of light. You are brilliant," Sherlock beamed.

    _Christ Almighty, are we bipolar?_ John thought. _Happy, sad. Angry, amused. I can't keep up. I'm not built for this shit._ _Where is that fucking glass of water_ _I was promised?_  

   "Sherlock?" The doctor moaned. "Can we hold off on talking for a second?"

   The lanky man nodded, nonplussed.

   "My dear love. I need that drink of water. And an ice pack. And a new ankle, whilst you are at it. I - I can't... I'm bloody beat, love. Can we not do this tomorrow?" 

   "Oh, my... But of course, John. Anything you want," Sherlock's eyes dripped anew.

   "Jesus. Jesus, love. Please. Water, pharmaceuticals, and you. That's all I want, and not necessarily in that order," John pleaded. "I can't... I just want to hold you and sleep through the night." Voice croaky with unshed tears, he added, "Alright? May I hold you tonight?"

   "But of course, John. I'll be right back."

    "In the morning, you can wax poetic, I promise. I will listen to anything you say," John whimpered. "But right now, I want to hold you and... hurry up. Can you do that?"

    "I'll hurry," Sherlock promised. 

     A huge, congested snuffly moan escaped from John's lips. "One last thing, Sherlock. When you come back, and we're ready to sleep..."

     "Yes, John?" Sherlock paused in the act of rising from the bed.

     "Will you please your take your shirt off again?"


	34. Metaphors, Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What takes places immediately after the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in real life." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence but it comes from within. It is there all the time." - Anna Freud
> 
> "Create around one at least a small circle where matters are arranged as one wants them to be." - Anna Freud

   Sherlock's body came to a screeching halt half-way between sitting and standing. "Sorry, John? I'm not sure I caught that." Color bled away from his cheeks, rosy lips tempering to white. 

  " _Sherlock?_ Sit back down," John pleaded, patting bed. "Come on, love. Let's talk this out."

   The detective's eyes flicked over to John's without moving. The little man watched, breath abated, whilst Sherlock swallowed hard several times. He resumed his place on the bed, migrating so stiffly that his knees popped, breaking the silence. "John..." he said softly, "I..." he cleared his throat harshly. "The...injuries that occurred, as you are now aware, are grotesque." He swept one hand toward the en suite. "It is quite obvious that they upset you, and - "

   "Yes!"the little man nodded. "Yes. Of course the scars upset me. They enraged me! I can't imagine -  _damn it_ , I can't even find the words to...to express how I feel," John gritted through his teeth. "But, Sherlock - Christ, come over here. Let me hold you," he murmured, stretching out his arms.

   Sherlock shrank from John's touch. He slid his body toward the footboard, out of his lover's reach. 

  "No, Sherlock. Enough of this shit, now. I'm tired, you're tired - hell, we're both wrecked. It's been a rubbish day, and even worse night. So, no more drama, yeah?" John lamented. "We do this together," he sighed, eyes bright in spite of everything. "Come here, Sherlock. Let me give you a hug. Please?"

  Sherlock paused, full lips pressed into a line. He nodded briefly before allowing John to embrace him. "I am tired, John," he confessed, the words falling from his lips in a torrent. "My brain is on fire, yes? Brilliant or not, the sad fact is that the bloody thing never shuts off. Ever. Sometimes, John, I honestly hate possessing this neurological mine field," Sherlock said, his right index finger cocked and aimed like a gun at his temple. John promptly yanked Sherlock's hand down and kissed it.

  "Come here, you idiot," John said, pulling Sherlock's head down to rest on his shoulder. "Well, I love it. I love your bloody big brain, and your snark, and all of the other things you are. Everything you are, everything - that, I love. Yeah? Now, hush so we can snuggle in peace." Sherlock performed that inexplicable magic trick of his whereby he folded his six-foot tall adult frame into a size more akin to a toddler's. He hummed quietly, content in the protective shelter of John's arms. John combed gentle fingers through Sherlock's tousled locks, occasionally kissing his head. _It_   _is good, so very good to be with John,_ Sherlock mused.  _However did I get so lucky to find him?_

  Eventually, in an unspoken agreement, the men drew apart. Sherlock briefly nuzzled into John's neck before wordlessly moving off to complete his tasks. Pain pills, water, and a soggy bag of frozen peas were handed to John in short order, much to the doctor's relief. John drained the glass in four huge swallows and passed it back to Sherlock's waiting hand.   

  The detective gazed at the empty vessel for a moment as if it held the solution for his life's insurmountable woes. Placing it gently on the bedside table, Sherlock blew out the air in his lungs. Gazing at John, he slipped off his shirt, switched off the lamp, and slid silently into their bed.

   The two men lay on their backs in the dark. Sherlock had placed himself close enough whereby John could feel his warmth. Performing his own version of "search and seizure", John floundered about with a hand, seeking Sherlock's. The doctor found his lover's hand, squeezed into a fist by his hip. John blanketed Sherlock's huge hand with his own. The doctor waited patiently, urging his own self to just let go.

   The detective's tight fist loosened in tiny increments, relaxing until his palm met with John's. Their fingers wove together in a tangle, and they slept.

   ************

   John felt the slow rise to consciousness as an increase in his level of pain. Snuffling, he peered into the luminous glow of his watch. Half three, bloody hell. Turning, he startled as he spied Sherlock's own luminous eyes opened and observant, meeting his. "Jesus, Sherlock. Have you been up all this time?"

  "No. I felt you stirring and woke up. I've only been awake for for about five minutes longer than you have, so don't worry," he crooked an eyebrow. "Pills wearing off?"

  "Yeah, but it's tolerable - just annoying. How are you?" John whispered, switching gears.

  "Tolerable - just annoying," Sherlock smiled wryly. "I'm not sure I will be able to sleep anymore, though." 

   John saw Sherlock squinting at his watch, and tilted it so he could read the time. "Hmm, I'm impressed. I slept much longer than I normally do. I find your presence in my bed a to be a potent soporific."

   A pleased smile spread across the little man's face. "Excellent! You've been neglecting your body for years," he chided, more tender than not. "Might my influence also make a dent in your flagrant abuse of nicotine patches?"

  "Ha! I think  _not!"_ Sherlock snorted. "As if!"

  "Thought not," John sighed. He watched as Sherlock rolled his long body to recline on one side, resting his head on his elbow. The detective had forgotten to switch off the lamp in the kitchen. An orange-yellow stream of light bisected the door and cut a sharp line along the wall. Caught in the glow, Sherlock's curls burned with bright copper highlights. Beautiful, it was true.

  Unfortunately, the detective's amended position also concealed his expression, eclipsed as he was by the light. John understand that Sherlock had changed positions on purpose.

   "Sherlock," John murmured, "I would like to continue what we started before. Our conversation, I mean. Influenza, and all that." The skin of his face creased, and folded, and crinkled from the mind-numbing force of anxiety. "I mean, we don't have to do it right  _now_ if you don't want. But," John squinted at the ceiling, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. In normal circumstances Sherlock would find this expression endearing. At the moment, John's facial contortions were driving him absolutely mad.

  "And, Sherlock..." the little man huffed, feeling trapped on his back like a turtle. John twisted his upper torso, hoping for a better view of his lover's face. Nope, no dice. "You know that we can never go back...to pretending, that is; to ignore the... _uhhh_... things that you told me, yeah?"

  Sherlock's words rumbled low in his throat. "It's what I'd prefer, though, John, and you know it."

  "Yeah, of course I do. I'd prefer that these horrible things never happened to you in the first place!" John felt his blood pressure skyrocket to where his ankle throbbed in tandem with his heart. Gripping his hair, John tried again. "Sorry...sorry...I shouldn't have raised my voice like that. I'm not angry, really."

   "Bloody hell, _yes_ you are!" Sherlock snapped. "You're as obvious to read as a sign post, John."

    John's hands pulled into fists, yanking hard on his hair. Some of it broke off and twisted between his fingers. "Fucking fuck! Okay! Yes, I'm angry! But not at  _you_ , love, never at you." He threw his body back down hard on the bed.

   "For God's sake, John. Remove your hands from your head before you pull all of your hair out! You're already grey, do you want to be balding as well?" The detective closed his eyes in defeat, breath pulling ragged through his nose. "Christ, I'm sorry, now I'm yelling." 

   "Look. Let's...can we start over? I need another pill anyway, and we both could use a minute to calm down. Go in the kitchen and turn off the light, and then we can talk in the dark. It'll be easier that way, maybe," John said.

   "Yes. I believe it would," Sherlock grunted, and went to follow John's bidding.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to contain the entire conversation but I goofed. Duh. I wish I was a stable genius, but I'm just a flighty broad.


	35. Shall We Continue, You Berk?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A biology lesson in virology. Yay! Break out the Lysol, and people, always wash your hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Boy, you gotta carry that weight  
> Carry that weight a long time  
> Boy, you gotta carry that weight  
> You're gonna carry that weight along time" 
> 
> Carry That Weight - The Beatles
> 
> "Once there was a way  
> To get back homeward  
> Once there was a way  
> To get back home  
> Sleep, pretty darling  
> Do not cry  
> And I will sing a lullaby." 
> 
> Golden Slumbers - The Beatles

   "Influenza, Sherlock? Can we go back to that?" John whispered. Between the pitch black space of the bedroom and a potent narcotic (two pills, screw the prescription) running in his veins, John felt weightless and floaty. Having this terrible conversation in the dark was definitely one of his better ideas.

   "Right. Bear with me here, I am completely aware that you know all of this already," Sherlock paused to clear his throat. "Influenza is an insidious predator, attacking people when they are at their most vulnerable."

   "Right. Insidious. Got that," John agreed.

   "Influenza is caused by a virus."

   "Check," John nodded. "I'm with you so far."

   "Viruses are basically very simple microbes. They are metabolically inert until they encounter a host. During the lysogenic phase, they lie dormant, not affecting the host in the slightest."

   "Sherlock. I do possess a medical degree, love," John murmured, growing sleepy. "I understand how viruses, including the influenza virus, work." A huge yawn cracked his face. "Can you move on to the point?"

   "Right. Sorry, I'm not trying to be condescending, or in any way indicate that you are a substandard physi-"

   " _Sherlock_ ," John groaned, "I didn't imply that you were...being condescending, that is. I'm just having a bit of difficulty staying awake. The medicine, remember? It's been a long day."

   "But of course. Apologies," more gratuitous throat clearing, and a sniff for good measure. "When a virus transitions to the lysogenic cycle after being triggered by environmental stressors, it multiplies, literally exploding out of a cell. Obliterates a host's cells, John. Rips them into bits, John. An eruption of death, if you will."

   "Charming. I'd rather not, thanks. Back to the analogy. So. We've been infiltrated by the influenza virus - any particular strain?"

   "Ahh...let's go with H3N2, why not? It suits my purposes quite nicely."

   John nodded, and then remembered their pitch black conditions. "Why not. Sherlock. We're not ill. Exactly what does H3N2 represent in our circumstance?"

   Sherlock coughed in embarrassment. "Sorry. I'm not explaining this very well."

  "Oh, I don't know about that. Please continue," John said, patting his lover's shoulder - or, at least, _some_ part of Sherlock's long body.

  "In our case, H3N2 represents the trauma we've... suffered. As it is, neither one of us ever spoke of it before it until now; well, at least not to each other. Our issues lay dormant, ready and raring to erupt." Sherlock giggled without an iota of mirth. "And, then it happened: the unforeseen introduction of the environmental stressor which triggers the change. Our trigger was when you fell down on your arse - and then WHAMMO! Chaos ensues. Our minds are fighting infection, but as of yet, the virus is winning."

   "It's not all been bad, Sherlock. One gammy leg is all it took for us to finally 'fess up love."

   "John," Sherlock's tone muted into something much softer. "This isn't permanent, and you know it. You will heal; you're not crippled." He extended his hand and held John's taut cheek in his hand. The doctor wondered how Sherlock had known where his head lay, and then sighed. He was Sherlock - or course he knew.

   "You don't know that for sure, love. This might be the end of my jumping across rooftops, yeah?" An anxious groan spilled from his lips. "I'm - I'm afraid, Sherlock. Who's got your back if I'm not there to protect you?"

  "Hush, love. Just - shut up. The point I'm trying to make here is that the last few days have been - "

   "Horrendous," John gritted out.

   "Yes. That. The ups, the downs, nervous laughter, the...sex...wait, that hasn't been horrendous for you, has it?" Sherlock sat up, suddenly panicked.

   " _No!_ Jesus, no," John pleaded. "Christ, Sherlock. The time we've spent together has been the happiest of my life.  _I love you,_ you great lummox. I can't get enough. I'm besotted."

   "Besotted?" Sherlock squeaked.

   "Barking mad for your body. Around the twist for your touch." The smaller man's normally light voice had gone deep. "And, Sherlock," he hesitated for a second, "Thank you for telling me the truth."

   "Well. I couldn't hide this forever, now could I? To have one thing, I had to share the other. And you still are avoiding the topic of your three years without my...scintillating presence," Sherlock nudged.

   "And we're not  _going_ to. Now now, alright? I just can't. It's too much to handle right now," John thrashed restlessly with apprehension. "Please, please, please don't ask me again." Something welled up in his gut, an unpleasant, unidentifiable sentiment. John's stomach roiled in nausea as a bitter taste rose in his throat.

   The room fell silent, the darkness oppressive. John forced down a strong  impulse to bolt. Sherlock sighed in deep resignation. "Oh, John. My lovely John. And I still want, and I know it's unfair. I can't ask or expect this of you considering - just considering."

   "What is it? Sherlock? Hey, it's okay," John soothed. Pushing down his anxiety, he whispered beseechingly, "Please tell me. Sherlock...talk to me. I'll give you anything you ask, whatever it is you need."

  Once again, the room filled with silence.

  "Sherlock," John coaxed with an underlying hint of steel, "it's okay. It's all good. I said that five years ago and I mean it today. Please?"

    John heard Sherlock inhale all the air in the room, leaving none left for himself. "What we did yesterday, the sex and all that, it was fantastic. Spectacular - more incredible than I ever could have imagined." Sherlock swallowed so strenuously John heard liquid propelling down his throat. "John, my body is ruined, just a mess. I'm wrecked, John, wrecked," he groaned, close to tears. "It's reasonable to infer that you no longer wish to be intimate."

   "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, for a genius you're being exceptionally thick!" The little man bawled, frightening them both. "Love doesn't stop at the skin!" John's voice slid up the scale from tenor to squeaky contralto. "You are gorgeous, you're beautiful! Being tortured by gangsters - who I'd send straight to hell if I had them..." he growled, "doesn't change the love that I feel!" The doctor's voice cracked, sallying forth straight past mezzo-soprano to hit 8va high C. "And frankly, Sherlock, I'm a little insulted! Do you honestly believe I'm that shallow?" He threw his head down on the pillow. John pushed back against the softness as if trying to drill a hole through the mattress.

   "Aaaaagh!" he screamed, echoing in the dark. "I hate that I wasn't with you, Sherlock! I should have been there! You should never have lied... I would have had your back! You are my everything! I would have saved you!"

   John sobbed into his hands. "You are my everything, Sherlock! I love you, I love you so much! Why would you choose to go alone?""

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.ucmp.berkeley.edu/alllife/virus.html
> 
> www.euroclinix.net/en/influenza/types-of-influenza-viruses
> 
> www.chicagotribune.com/lifestyles/health/ct-flu-q-and-a-what-you-should-know-20180126-story.html
> 
> Because I'm not that smart.


	36. Remnants of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times in our lives when words aren't enough.
> 
> Very small revision of the last few words in the last chapter for the purposes of maximum angst.
> 
> Sorry this took so long to get up. Having a bit of writer's block. I kept thinking that "Yes, I'll be able to post today.", only to turn on my computer and feel compelled to rework the whole damn thing. I need to find a beta to bounce ideas off of. Any takers? :)
> 
> Also, 68-hour work weeks are the devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Flowers are restful to look at. They have neither emotions or conflicts." - Sigmund Freud 
> 
> "There is a powerful force within us, an un-illuminated part of the mind - separate from the conscious mind that is constantly at work molding our thoughts, feelings, and actions." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> “The remnants of pain left behind by every strong negative emotion that is not fully faced, accepted, and then let go of join together to form an energy field that lives in the very cells of your body.”  
> — Eckhart Tolle

  Sherlock popped up on one elbow, instinctively reaching for John. He slipped one plate-sized hand under his back and drew John into in his arms. The men huddled together, neither speaking, breathing hard. Sherlock fought off the temptation to rock, despite how it quieted his mind.

  John body felt taut, almost corpse-like. This continuing deluge of emotion was more than his mind was designed to handle. At once appalled, ashamed, and exhausted, John despaired at his lack of self-discipline.  _A virus? Fuck, this feels more like the Plague!_ "Christ," he gasped out, "not again. You must think that I'm -  _shit!_ Sherlock," he paused, at pains to regain control, "I'm so sorry. I feel like my brains are melting. I don't know what I am doing anymore."   

 "John," the detective's deep baritone dropped deeper, descending to basso profundo, "John, easy now. Take it easy, it's over and done. I  _ended_ it, John. The war is over, and I won." Sherlock massaged the back of John's neck in an effort to loosen him up. The last thing John needed was the misery of knotted muscles. "Moriarty is long gone with all his filthy cabal. Trust me on that score. After all," he ended sickly, "it was in my best interests to be completely, 100% thorough in my efforts."

  One quick, whip-hard shudder snapped up the length of his spine. Loathsome images flashed unprompted, unwanted; wretched remnants of pain. Before Moriarty, Sherlock was merely an arsehole. Now, he was an arsehole,  _and_ a ruthless, repulsive assassin.  _(Well done, you...)_  The detective could admit that, in no uncertain terms, he did indeed had blood on his hands - quite a bit.

  Bitterness is a paralytic; love is a much more powerful motivator. 

   _Love._

  Love, such a perilous and slippery sentiment. It's a precept woven into sonnets and carved into trees.  _Love_ is doodled onto bridges with bubble-gum pink paint: "Sheila loves Bobby 4Ever".  _Love._ Humans confess to loving chocolate cream, and puppies, and that one tall, dark bloke from the telly - that one with the long, wavy curls.  _Love_ might be frivolous or fierce, fleeting or forever.  _Love_ makes the world go 'round. Sherlock had never fathomed the intent behind the maxim. _Love._ Sentimental, supercilious, dangerous-deadly tripe, topped with a steaming pile of bullshit.

   _Love._ _I love John._ _John makes my world go 'round. In this particular case, the logic behind the statement is flawless._

   Sherlock conscientiously constructed his next sentence. "Jawww..." he cleared his throat. "John, listen. You need to listen, and take my words in. Listen... and then  _hear_ me. It's vital that you understand."

   John pulled back and looked up, not that he was able to see anything. It was important to demonstrate his focus. "I'm listening, Sherlock. I'll do my best. I'll...  _hear_  you as much as I can. I think," he giggled hysterically, and then hiccuped. His stomach hurt from the strength of the spasm. "My brains could be a stand-in for a nice Christmas pudding right about now."

  Drawing from the tenants of his many  _ad nauseum_ therapists (hateful, sanctimonious, overbearing idiots, the lot of them), Sherlock launched into what he hoped wasn't perceived as hateful, sanctimonious, and overbearing claptrap, whereby he finished up sounding like an idiot. Nevertheless, he didn't hold out much hope. At least he had better taste in apparel.

 "In other words, John... John...what's done is done, and it is what it is. You're fighting with ancient history," Sherlock emphasized his words with a shake. "Continuing to do so is futile, truly a ridiculous waste of your energy." The doctor hiccuped twice more, bobbing his head in assent. "I do get it, John," Sherlock whispered. "We both have our demons to fight."

  The doctor resorted to his oft-used personal reset button by reflexively shaking out his hands. John then extended his fingers, whereby they wavered like world-weary starfish. "Ohhh, God. I do feel like I'm under the weather, Sherlock. I'm bloody all turned around. I can't think straight."

_"Taenia solium"_. Sherlock suggested.

   "Neurocysticercosis. Right, brilliant, little squigglies ingesting the meat of our brains," John exhaled. "Lovely image, Sherlock. Explains the nausea and disordered thoughts, yeah?"

   "Mmmmm," 

  The doctor ran his strong, compact hands along Sherlock's ribs to his sternum, appreciating the lines of his chest.  _Oh my God_ , the two startled, in simultaneous - if horrified, wonder. _He's_  ( _I'm) touching_ _my (his) scars!_ It might have been funny in less perilous circumstances, a case in point for the strength of their bond. As it was, however, John's touch felt precarious, like teetering on the edge of an abyss. A yawning abyss choked with razor-sharp spears at the bottom, poised and ready to skewer any poor sod that chanced to fall in.

  John lost his bearing and dropped like a stone. _Bloody hell,_ it hurt like a bitch.

  A ruined lunar landscape had been gouged into Sherlock's pale, pristine, perfect body. Both shoulders and the length of his back were peppered by gnarled, looping tendrils of collagen and small craters. Long, wire-thin bands of raised flesh ringed his ribs like a belt. A constellation of healed cigarette (and other) burns crossed Sherlock's flanks. Tract marks blanketed his forearms. There wasn't one swath of skin left unmolested. He was afraid to find out how much damage had been perpetrated by Sherlock's own hand, and wasn't quite sure which was worse.

   _These...this isn't bloody fucking history! "In-the-Past" my round, rosy arse! This is now, this, these affect him now. Sherlock is still being tortured. These...this..._  John's line of thought unraveled, and he mentally stumbled, undone.  _History be fucking-well damned! Fucking Fucking Fucking..._

  Boiling-hot rage welled up like mercury in an old glass thermometer. His hands clenched back into fists, steadfast and restless to strike. Dr. John Watson generally labored to save lives; after all, he'd taken an oath. Dr. John Watson was also a soldier, and he was having a very bad day. 

   Frankly, it didn't matter that in all certainty the bastards had long ago been turned into worm food. Dollars to doughnuts, Mycroft had executed very specific orders in this case, pun absolutely intended. No, what mattered was that his gorgeous, brilliant boyfriend  _(boyfriend?)_  wrapped his body in rubber rather than admit to the truth. Sherlock must be plagued by flashbacks every time he looked at his body.  _If_ he looked at his body. He'd carried this burden alone for a very, very long time. John wanted to cry even more than he wanted to kill.

  "Sherlock?" the little man dithered in misery, "Should I. _Ghaaa._  Do you need me to move?"

  "No, I... Please don't go," Sherlock spurted in alarm. He frantically pressed his hands over John's forcefully as a pair of Lestrade's stainless steel handcuffs. "Touching you, being  _able_ to touch you and have you touch me is a privilege I will never forego now that I have it. It's just..." Sherlock faltered. "Let me - I, um. _U_ _hhhhh..._ "

  "Need to take a breather?" John suggested, desperately in need of one himself.

  "Sure. Yes - that," agreed Sherlock, pressing his forehead against John's. They whispered sweet invocations of love, desirous of each other's well-being. The detective brushed dry, tender kisses along the rounded planes of John's cheeks, on the soft, bulbous tip of his nose. The doctor mouthed the sharp edges of Sherlock's cheeks. Inevitably, their lips circled back around; hot breath parceled out between light, tender kisses. 

  Sherlock feathered his thumb along the cleft of John's mouth, four long, graceful fingers cupping his chin. His hands traced solid, round shoulders and sturdy, ovoid hips. All the planes of John's body were configured in a helix. Even the small man's knuckles formed benignly cast ellipses, belying their potential for mayhem. John's anatomy and demeanor was it's own disguise, Sherlock deduced with a start. John was a force of destructive fury clad in a frumpy gray cardigan. Venturing onward, Sherlock's slim, callused fingers gentled and unwound the whole of John's sum.

  In return, John embarked on an overall tally of damage, brushing tentatively over brutality's despicable aftermath.  Running his physician's finger's along their width, length, and for one outrageous moment, depth, John undertook a comprehensive analysis of their origins. The planets realigned. Worlds ended and began. New constellations formed in the skies. John's construct of humanity shattered, reforming into something much darker. After all that he'd witnessed in personal experience war, and The Work, John _finally_ fully grasped the evil that humanity harbours. In all honesty, he'd have been thrilled to remain ignorant. A great weight pressed on his chest, limiting his capacity to breathe.

  As for his own self-concept, John identified himself as both a fighter and fixer of men. His original blowout, which seemed ridiculous in retrospect, centered on the constraints of bodily injury. He abruptly grasped the reality of his duty. His Work, his commitment, began here in their flat with his lover and best friend in the world. No longer did his Work rely on mobility and deadly accuracy with a gun. John must dredge up every shred of compassion he held, whilst generating an infinite supply of patience. This Work was going to be the greatest challenge of his life. John feared he hadn't the qualifications for the task ahead.

  Before anything, however, John needed to put aside his own issues. A busted-up ankle was small potatoes, a trifle. His behavior engendered deep shame. He had to set his focus on the things he had the ability to do. He absorbed Sherlock's words and allowed them to marinate. 

 John's Work began right here. Right now, in their bed. He fortified himself and dove in. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I found the the quote by Eckhart Tolle only after I'd written the last chapter. I felt brilliant for a whole five minutes...go, me!
> 
> Also, two more things:
> 
> one, sorry again for the slow rate of updates.
> 
> two, if anyone has ever felt even the slightest bit of offense at my psued, please read my bio. It explains.
> 
> okay, one more. I'm pretty sure that this sucks. Hopefully it doesn't. I'm venting here, not looking for anything...ok, that's a lie. I am in desperate need for positive input. I have been distracted by the MARVELOUS work of CaitlynFairchild, SilentAuror, PoppyAlexander, Breath4Life, LockedinJohnlock, CassidyHartwick, pandoras_chaos, J-Baillier, darkestbird, threadoflife, pennydreadful, and many others. Check oiut my bookmarks if you are interested. It's a little daunting to write when surrounded by such brilliance.


	37. Hush...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John proves to Sherlock that Sherlock's scars make him even more beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We have learned, for example, that the more virtuous a man is the more severe is his super-ego, and that he blames himself for misfortunes for which he is clearly not responsible.”  
> ― Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents
> 
> “We are threatened with suffering from three directions: from our body, which is doomed to decay..., from the external world which may rage against us with overwhelming and merciless force of destruction, and finally from our relations with other men... This last source is perhaps more painful to use than any other. (p77)”  
> ― Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents
> 
> "All healing is first a healing of the heart." - Carl Townsend
> 
> "There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with." - Harry Crews

   "Now," John stuttered, stymied by the enormity of the task. "Sherlock." Gathering his few remaining brain cells residing in his skull, the doctor gave them a pep talk. He was resolved, and therefore primed to forge ahead with the - plan? Or...something. Plan? Venture? Mission? Extremely personal mandate? No, those terms were far too flippant or trivial for John's purpose. The  _Work,_  his work.But, bloody hell, where to begin?

  Sherlock had suffered so much. Sherlock had suffered alone. Who was _he,_  the most ordinary of men, to accomplish what professionals had not?  _I'm a pig-headed, stubborn prime arsehole, that's who. I'm an (ex) soldier, former army surgeon (okay, maybe not exactly high on the list of necessary skills for redressing Sherlock's torment, but, still), flatmate, best friend, and new lover. If_ _I can't fix him, then nobody can fix him._

_Christ, that's bloody unfortunate, poor git._

_Hup to, Watson. When needs must._

   " _Take this in,_ Sherlock," John heard himself squeaking, not the most promising start. Clearing his throat, John struggled to voice his convictions in an manner that would dispel any and all of of Sherlock's doubts. "Please. Please love, trust that I'm telling you the truth. Each of these marks represents your strength, your power, your  _brilliance._   _Christ,_ you are beautiful to me," John evinced, "Even when you act like a dick." The belated attempt for some levity fell flat, each word hanging loud in the silence. Swallowing hard, John proceeded to step two. His small but strong hands cautiously, carefully reached out. It felt imperative to comfort his lover.   

   Any plans for physical reassurance were squelched, however, as Sherlock abruptly slid back. He remained fearful of John's learned fingers. John had the touch of a doctor, and Sherlock possessed a bloody big brain. He'd anticipated the little man's next move, and had no intention of conceding. Sherlock deemed his intention irrational, disastrous. John planned to  _feel_ them, this corruption. John's viewpoint, whilst touching, defied both common sense and rational belief. His transport was long past redemption.

  Sentiment aside, the scars were simply  _not_ beautiful.

  "Stop it, Sherlock," John pressed, "don't... leave. You told me you love me and I'm not letting you go." He jammed the heels of his small hands into his light-deprived eyes. The pressure triggered a cloud of psychedelic whorls spinning across the surface of his eyelids. Disoriented, John pulled away, blinking hard to erase the pesky phosphenes.

  "Look. You were brave enough to do that, right? I mean,  _Jesus._ Use that big, brilliant brain and take this in. I. Feel. The same. Sherlock, Christ, I love you. I'm crazy about you. I'd follow you into the very depths of hell. In fact, nothing and no-one is going to keep me from you - except for you." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "The two of us against the world, Sherlock. Together."

   Abashed and afraid, Sherlock shuddered - but slid closer. He wiggled cautiously, freezing when he met John's furnace-hot length. The scent of John's sweat was so soothing, Sherlock didn't even think twice. He brushed cat-like against his lover; anointing his face with the moisture. John's scent, the smell of salvation - balm for the roiling of his gut. It turned out that John's queasy stomach was contagious.

  Slowly, so slowly, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John. They clung together, two men awash in the sea. "Please, Sherlock," he breathed, "let me touch you. Let me love you this way, let me in." John held his breath, the grinding gears of Sherlock's brain practically audible. Finally, eventually, he gave an infinitesimal nod.

   Although a taciturn man by nature, John felt his mouth mumbling as his hands traced the blasphemy of scars. "These marks, Sherlock. There's so many. I think...your body's like the Sistine Chapel, yeah? I've never been...never even stepped foot inside Italy. Hmmm...large mass of keloidal tissue along the lower left quadrant, over the kidney. Knife wounds? Signs of significant infection. Here...at least 8 inches by 2 of contractured scarring ...branding iron? Line of something caustic, maybe acid?" John had no real interest in receiving a definitive answer for his query.

  Sherlock shivered during John's diagnostic soliloquy, feverish flesh twitching with each gentle stroke. He lay passive and silent, trusting John. Trusting John. Trusting John. Trust in John. His rate of respiration was easing.

  "I've never been. I never saw it first-hand. But my aunt did," John continued, timbre tender. Hypnotic. "She took a whole mess of pictures. I was leery at first, she tended to give hours' long slide shows. My father always forced us to watch...he was _such_ an arsehole. Terrible things they were, too, usually. Bloody awful. You can't believe her dissertation on Cornwall...oh my God, talk about dull." He snorted, amused. "I think my father saw it as due punishment for our being born and budging into his pub time."

   Sherlock's breaths puffed, rhythmic and warm on John's cheek. The doctor's methodical assessment pressed onward. "Here. Prolonged episodes of whipping. Line upon line upon line, obviously breaking the skin. Sometimes with...something knotted? Or chains?" John hitched in a pained breath. Too much detail.

   * _Sigh*_  

  "But, this one time? She took a trip across Europe with her sewing circle, Jesus, the biggest bunch of old biddies you ever saw, swear to God, like a clutch of squawking chickens. And sodding hell, all the _photos!_ Pigeons in the square, and the markets, and the ad nauseum tapestry displays. And _then...this."_

  Sherlock's muscles uncoiled, untwisted, unbent. His mind slipped into a separate place, one of peace and tranquility. Odd, that - considering that his worst fear was now being realized.

   "It was such a wonder, Sherlock. So fucking incredible. I couldn't fathom it, even as a kid. How could one man, any man for that matter, create such a miraculous treasure. On his back, or fucking craning back his head on a scaffold. Rickety scaffolds, at that...fuck the Renaissance, it's a miracle that he didn't break his neck." 

    John sighed at the memory of those pictures. "Anyhoo, Michelangelo worked out the bodily proportions of all these biblical figures to perfection. Every portrait rendered in perfect anatomical proportion. Bending and stretching..." his fingers bent around the man's shoulders, stretching to explore the flesh of his neck. "Also. Get a load of this. The frescos run along the whole fucking ceiling, Sherlock. It's not flat. It's made with arches, and alcoves, and naves. Genius, Sherlock. Utter genius." John took a deep breath. He had so very much more to say. "Just like you."

   "Did you know that Michelangelo mixed water with pigment for the frescos? He didn't  _paint_ on the ceiling, he slapped his art into wet plaster. Plaster dries really fast, I don't know if you knew that...not sure that it ever came up is a case, so...he didn't have a lot of time to dally. _Bam_! And there it was. So, his artwork isn't on the ceiling, it basically _is_  the ceiling. Not painted  _on_ it, but  _in_ it. An inherent part of the church. And, it's old, Sherlock, early 1500's. Fucking ancient, yeah?

   Eventually, the frescos got damaged. Time, and the climate, even other idiot painters who wanted to touch it up. A couple of years ago people restored it. Some moron had decided to cover it with glue...presumably to prevent it from cracking." Fingers followed the curve of taut shoulders, bridging the trapezius muscles to fall into the wells of his clavicles. "Multiple puncture wounds, also compromised by infection. Extensive keloidal nodules across the joints, significant likelihood of adhesions... puncture wounds, is my guess. More knife-work?"

   "Stiletto," Sherlock muttered.

   "Ah. Of course," John nodded, lips pursed. "Ah... _fuck._ More burns. Serious burns."

   "Blow torch." 

   John swallowed a flood of hot bile. Moving on. "The restoration took a very long time, of course. Painstaking work, that. Only able to work on small portions at a time. The glaze had cracked, see. Bits were at risk of flaking off. The process was quite arduous, or so my aunt said. Aunt Cecilia. Do you know, she had blue hair?" John snickered. "Crazy old bat."

   "Mmmmm."

   "Well, the thing is, love, is that they were able to restore the bloody thing back to its original beauty. The glaze cracked, and they couldn't do anything about that. But I think... no, I  _know._  The crackling of the glaze added depth to the beauty." John squeezed Sherlock's biceps before flattening his hands over his chest. "Because, see, no matter how much we try, everything in life sustains a bit of damage. It's unavoidable. The very act of living is dangerous. You're a scientist, you know that," a sharp hitching breath cut short his thoughts. John's hands had reached the injuries sustained by Sherlock's own, guilt-ridden hand. Short fingers brushed from one razor slash to the next.

   John's hands were the hands of a healer. The barbed wire savagely squeezing around his heart snapped, one razor-sharp barb at a time.

   "Your body is a fresco, Sherlock. A beautiful, treasured work of art." John's words lingered in the air, tickling along the edge of his ear. The doctor's small frame was practically pasted to Sherlock; sweaty, and sticky, and  _fuck,_ sexy as all hell.

   "Every line, every mark, every track mark and divot, and..."

    _"John!"_ Sherlock groaned, shuddering from a muddled mass of emotions. "I can't, they're not...why you - ." He was prevented from saying more by John's palms, which had unexpectedly cradled his jaw. They felt soft, loving and gentle, yet but pressed hard enough to seal his lips shut.

     "Hush, now, my love. Just close that beautifully kissable mouth of yours and let it go."

  "John..." 

  "I said _hush._ Let me do this. I've been wracking my brain for the words. I never thought they'd come, but they did. I don't know how, honestly. I think - I understand now, that some ideas and feelings are so big that words can only hint at their essence." Sherlock's eyes welled with tears. His amazing, wonderful John.

  "Let me. My brain is tired. I only hope that the words were clear in their meaning.

  "But, John..."

  "Sherlock. Do shut up," John whispered, managing to channel Capt. Watson sotto voce. "Shut up," he continued, lips brushing across each cheek. "Shut up," hot moisture licked up Sherlock's rough, unshaven jaw.

  "Shut up now and listen," John crooned. "My body now has something to say."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.huffingtonpost.com/cheryl-g-murphy/why-do-i-see-patterns-when-i-close-my-eyes_b_7597438.html
> 
> www.nytimes.com/1990/05/14/arts/review-art-after-a-much-debated-cleaning-a-richly-hued-sistine-emerges.html?pagewanted=all


	38. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In the important decisions of personal life, we should be governed, I think, by the deep inner needs of our nature.”  
> ― Sigmund Freud
> 
>  

  Unlike the speech center of his brain, John's body was brilliantly expressive; dare one say, deliciously loquacious, in fact. Sherlock let fly an uncivilized groan amidst the collision between his flesh and John's mouth. He lay prone and helpless, rapt by the entreaty of those inconceivably clever, thin lips brushing the rigid peaks of his nipples. _Christ,_ that slick, prehensile tongue, dragging from earlobe to clavicle. And,  _holy hell,_  the nibbling of these small, softly rounded teeth along the ticklish line of his ribs! 

  " _Gawwwwd,"_ Sherlock keened, lower lip trapped  between tightly clenched teeth. "That's. Yes, that's good, that's...good.  _John._ " Beads of perspiration popped from his pores, a purely visceral response. "Christ, John! That's so -  _gaaaahhhhh."_ He felt the moisture trickle down his temples and pool in the well of his clavicles. John's mouth split wide with what must be a spectacular, shit-eating smile. Sherlock instantly sensed it, even with his eyelids squeezed shut. It was obvious from the contracting of John's cheeks accompanied by a salaciously satisfied giggle. Helpless, Sherlock thrust hard against John, panting with helpless abandon.

  John Watson, A.K.A the eloquent Shakespeare of Sex.

   **************

   As a matter of course, Sherlock generally neglected the needs of his transport. He'd cultivated this habit early on, the pesky hormones of puberty impeding brainwork. Hunger, sleep, thirst, or what have you; these were deemed a time-wasting chore. He brushed off basic biology at the tender age of twelve and four months (and three days, if you want to be precise).

   And then, there was the issue of breathing. Fundamentally, breathing is boring. If oxygen wasn't so bloody essential, Sherlock knew that if respiration wasn't regulated by his ANS, he never would have continued the practice in the first place. Dull. Boring. Albeit useful, but boring.

  The detective found tuning out his transport quite practical, most notably on long, sleepless stakeouts in Prague. And yet. Two years of being dead/but-not-really-dead threw a hell of a spanner into the works. His works, specifically. Obviously, it should have gone without saying, but this issue affected more than his own sodding carcass. 

  It was simple logic...which all things considered, could be judged rather unfortunate. Care for the needs of his transport, or chance Moriarty's underlings  _taking care_ of John's. Ergo, eat, drink, and...well, perhaps being merry was a bit much to expect in these circumstances, yes? Nevertheless, Sherlock made the necessary adjustments. He sought out provisions when conditions were favorable enough to do so. They weren't really, that is, favorable. In fact, the conditions were fucking, bloody _awful._ Even infrequent opportunities grew difficult the further he delved into Moriarty's web. 

  A second, more hellish spanner popped up; that is to say, a fucking ruthless, bloody cataclysmic spanner. _G_ _uilt,_ the dead-on equivalent of one 24-inch Bahco 36124 361-24 Stillson Type Pipe Wrench. _I once solved a case involving a monkey, three Russians plumbers and a..._ no.

  Realistically,Sherlock was still Sherlock. He would forever, and always, be Sherlock. So, of course the  _The Work_  came first, any and all extraneous data be damned. And yet. After each mission wound down, abhorrent sentiment flared up. It burned, this: a soul-killing conflagration of shame and remorse, deep in the pit of his belly. Each job's conclusion dragged him just that much closer to hell's gates.

  Something, somewhere had to give - before he did. The elder Holmes despised legwork for more than the actual  _legwork._ They both knew that penance eventually must be paid, the cost for which being extraordinarily dear. Mycroft desperately worried about Sherlock.

  Constantly.

  On a hot, humid Wednesday, at half-three a.m., Sherlock finally opened his wallet. Payment involved smashing himself senseless against a formidably large concrete girder. He very purposefully _didn't_ avoid hitting his nose or his teeth. Sherlock hadn't spared Achara Aromdee's face tossing her over the Bhumibol Bridge, 50 metres to the Chao Phraya below. Someone, at least at some point, must have loved her. Maybe. She made for a vicious assassin, moonlighting as a bitch on the side.

  Later on, penance involved using implements smaller than bridges. John's hands ran across the evidence; Sherlock's personal version of Cuneiform etched via razor. Scalpel-thin scars, either cross-hatched or singular, drafting historical record. The scars spelled out  _contrition,_ and  _angst,_ and ungodly, horrified  _shame._ Above all, the cuts symbolized  _self-contempt,_   _self-_ _hatred,_ and _The_ _blood on my hands won't wash off._

   Caring is never an advantage, Sherlock. ( _Fuck off, Mycroft_ ).

   As every evil genius knows, that there's more than one way to skin a cat.

  **************

   John's hands slipped down his lover's chest, tracing raised remnants of contrition. "Juh...John," Sherlock stuttered, pulling aft. "I don't - I though we were done with that business."

   John nimbly secured both of Sherlock's arms in a firm, but compassionate grip, pinioning him to the bed. "Stop it now," he scolded. "You need to stay here, with me, on this bed." Like a heat-seeking missile, he swiftly honed in on those plush, perfect lips and landed a fiery kiss. 

  _"Mmmmph!"_ Sherlock cried, jolting at John's ardent ambush. He instantly melted under the blazing heat of John's open-mouthed kiss, small wet tongue pushing past all his defences. The little man's hands released Sherlock's arms, only to clutch at his arse. "John!" he gasped, _"John!"_

"Now I," John panted, between hot, sloppy kisses, "Am going to tell you why you are so beautiful to me, and you, my dear, are going to shut up and listen."

  "Mmmm...what?" Sherlock began, only to be muffled by John's lips, pressing hard. He attempted an evasive maneuver, starting with distraction. He cupped John's cock soundly in his fist. The doctor groaned, and rolled his head back on one shoulder. Perfect. John was completely distracted. He writhed with wanton abandon, unconsciously thrusting his hips. This should have been the moment to bail, but John's flailing body felt too tempting. Sherlock's hand remained glued to John's cock, as his body remained glued to John's side.

   No! Sherlock gave himself a stern mental smack on the head. He needed to set the record straight about the scars. They were horrific, and there'd been too many lies as it was.  _This isn't necessary,_  he though.  _John,_ _I don't want you to lie._ However, putting thought into words proved quite challenging, as John's touch morphed from clinically methodical to _Jesus_ _holy fuck, Oh my God!_

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock. Yeah, keep doing that, just like that," John begged. "But, if you think that I can't multi-task under pressure, then you're sorely mistaken." He squirmed against Sherlock's strong hand. "Don't forget. I was a doctor  _and_ a soldier. I'm still going to...ahhh...speak my peace. Oh, fuck!"

   John cried out hoarsely as Sherlock upped the ante, pumping with a smooth, steady rhythm. In retaliation, the doctor splayed sweet, open-mouthed kisses over one nipple, closing down over it to suck. Thin clever lips, and moist, pliable tongue set up shop on the plain of his chest. Sherlock shivered as warm, slippery traces of saliva cooled, inspiring a blanket of goosebumps. It was...John was...exquisite. His touch felt inherently divine.

   "Now listen here... _oh, shit..._ this is the truth of it, now. I would never lie about this." As John spoke, he revisited every old wound. He kissed as he caressed, licking over rough, ropy skin. John paid particularly lavish attention to Sherlock's own work, honoring the marks carved by conscience. The detective let out a litany of soft, mewling moans, and unabashed, desperate groans. He'd never imagined that revealing his scars would be anything other than repugnant.

  "Sherlock, love," John huffed, fighting to maintain his composure. Sherlock's hand had changed over to short, twisting jerks. He felt his eyes roll back in his skull. "Oh, my sweet love. Think about it. You were faced with... _hahhh..._ desperate decisions. Kill or be killed, yeah? You were fighting to save all our lives." 

  The detective nodded, too far gone for cognizant speech. "You see, to me," John paused. "Here, hang on a mo'. Move up a bit so I can reach you. Not everyone is built with limbs like an orangutan."

  Sherlock complied, juddering as John reached down to stroke his own weeping penis. Apparently the tongue bath had reached its conclusion.  _Whoops!_ Maybe not. John curled down, lathing over his glans and loose foreskin. Thrusting forward (pun intended), John whispered his thoughts between teasing light licks and wee kisses. Sherlock spared a few brain cells to deduce that John must look like a man speaking into a microphone. He couldn't help it, he snickered. "Testing...testing..."

  "What?" John snorted. He let fly a long, merry giggle, forever in tune with his lover. "Now. Hear. This." John bellowed in a sportscaster's tone. He both felt and heard Sherlock's guffaw. "You ARE BEAUTIFUL, Sherlock, and no bloody old scars can change that. You are sexy, and brilliant...hey, keep going, I'll die if you stop now!" John demanded with a slap to his arse, as the detective's hand abruptly stilled. Those words - John's words. He'd know in an instant if John was lying. Hell, he was bloody  _the_ Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake!

  John was most definitively telling the truth; or, at least the truth as he saw it. John wasn't repelled by his body. John Watson saw him as sexy, and brilliant, and...fuck. He took up his ministrations, and the doctor growled out a robust thank you in relief. "I think," John heaved breathlessly, "that it is time to stop talking, and to put my money where my mouth is."

  At this, Sherlock brayed out a deep snort of laughter. "Jesus, John, that was terrible!"

  "Shut up and make me come," John piped in rebuttal, and bent down to suck on his cock. It was marvelous, this - to love and be loved, especially by the love of your life.

   

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When someone "moonlights", it means that they have a second career or are working a second, supplementary job. I put this in here just in case...I am absolutely clueless when it comes to knowing whether or not colloquialisms are common to different countries.
> 
> Speaking of which, as an American I had never heard the word "judder" before. I haven't googled it, but am using in context according to how it has been used in other people's work. I hope I understood it's meaning.


	39. Apart, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A difficult conversation for John leads to...well, difficulties - for me, the writer.
> 
> THIS POSTING IS REALLY, RIDICULOUSLY SHORT.
> 
> I am really sorry that my posting time has slowed down so much. Work, work work work work. I love my job, but I hate having to work when it interferes so much with my life. The only things that I feel capable of doing is eating, then sleeping, and then hauling my sorry arse to work. Yuck.
> 
> And now, I'm sick with some weird nerve pain thing, and been having a very hard time concentrating.
> 
> God, that's pitiful. Sorry.

  John rose up to slowly to consciousness, abruptly aware of three things. One, he was feverishly hot, and lathered in thick, salty sweat. Two, he lay caught - or  _restrained -_  by ropes, or tight linens, and limbs. Human limbs, to be clear.  _Please say I'm not touching dead b_ _odies...or, fuck! - the bits and bobs left behind._  John's hackles shot skyward, along with respiration and pulse. Whatever this was, where  _he_ was, there was more than one person involved. The tiny, coarse hairs at the base of his neck sprung up, and brushed at his collar. _Watson, you've landed yourself in_ _one seriously fucked-up situation._

  The soldier reached down deep for control, but the final fact fair drove him mad.

  _S_ _onofa-everloving-bitch._  

  Severe, highly localized pain blazed from his left ankle joint. Well, wasn't this a bloody perfect to-do. Apparently, fate couldn't leave his sorry arse well enough alone, and so fucked over both of his legs. He knew that the pain indicated serious, and likely debilitating injury; please  _please_ _please_ , not re: artillery or shrapnel. He groaned and opened his eyes.

  He lay buried in rubble, along with the rest of the surgery.  _There, is that ...bloody Christ._  Scanning the immediate environs yielded Watson a glimpse of dusty blonde hair tangled around clumps of detritus. Dark clotted blood soaked one edge. Squinting around the gloom to his right, a pair of standard-issue boots peeked behind a twisted steel joist.  _IED._   

   As if enough were't enough, a frayed tangle of wire came to life, jerking  perilously close to his face. John flinched, yelping in fear. He twisted about, dodging the neon blue sparks as much as his trapped torso permitted.  _IED._  Particles of dust floated downward in fine, dirty clumps. Dust clung to the sweat on his skin. Even John's throat was lined with the stuff - fuck, he could  _taste_ it on his tongue. He gagged with the knowledge that some of the ash had come from burning corpses. John was eating and breathing his best mates. John hacked and spit to rid himself of the taste. 

    _Enough of this shit - I can't be the only survivor._

   "Murray! Dempsey! It's Watson. I'm here, I'm okay!" John's voice cracked on the name of MacAvey. That little shit...that fucking smart wanker. Mac was still shaving peach fuzz - but a hell of a field paramedic. "State your name and where you think you location is compared to mine!"

    _Jesus, please!_

"Hello? _Anyone!"_

      


	40. Apart, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea, toast, and a hell of a brush-off by John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love in the form of longing and deprivation lowers the self regard.”  
> ― Sigmund Freud
> 
> “Our memory has no guarantees at all, and yet we bow more often than is objectively justified to the compulsion to believe what it says.”  
> ― Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams
> 
> “Those who have eyes to see and ears to hear will soon convince themselves that mortals cannot hide any secret.”  
> ― Sigmund Freud, A Case of Hysteria: Dora

    _"Murray! Demp-"..._

     Sherlock shot straight up off his pillow, heart racing and ready for action. Two years of rough living had, by default, honed his fight-or-flight instincts. It now was a rare day indeed that Sherlock stirred without strangling a pillow. Sherlock registered, stomach sinking, that veteran John Watson did the same. He felt crushed by the knowledge...six years a civilian, and yet part of John was still in Afghanistan.  

   Currently, John's body was waging a one-person war with the taut, twisted layers of bedding. Silver-blonde hair, twisted-up straight pins, pierced through the sweat-soaked duvet; the rest of John lay smothered beneath. The sight called to mind a burlap sack full of kittens dropped in a barrel full of rain water.

  "John! John, wake up! It's okay!" Sherlock snapped, shaking himself free of his reverie. John gave no response other than to increase the intensity of his thrashing. Sherlock groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. He knew from hard won experience (and several deep purple bruises) that waking John via touch was not on.

   "John! You're having a nightmare. It's not real!" Sherlock's voice shook. Quickly clearing the sick from his throat, he bellowed,  _"John, WAKE UP!"_

" _No..._ let me through. Let me through..." John sobbed, curling into himself.

    Sherlock blanched, horrified. John was suffering - again - because of his own thoughtless actions. Not just the war, then, but he himself. How often did _these_ nightmares occur? Despite the risk, the detective laid his plate-sized hands on what he surmised was John's hip. Sherlock jostled him desperately, roughly. "Wake up, John. _Please_ wake up. Please. John, I am here." 

    _"EeaaAAAgh!"_ John screamed. He pushed away from the detective, sweeping the duvet aside. Most of it landed on the floor, along with two of the pillows. "Fuck. Fuck. Jesus  _fuck."_

The detective wrenched his hand to his lips as if burned, chewing on a knuckle. "John," he murmured, abashed. He couldn't think of anything else to say. "John."

   John rubbed his eyes using the meat of his palms. Grimacing, he yanked his hands back and scowled at their faint, salty sheen. "Fucking hell, I was crying?" Appalled, John scrubbed the sheets until his hands feel clean. He might as well have been scraping off dog shit.

   "John?"

   "Yeah," John huffed, glaring down and away. "Yeah. I get it, you don't have to coddle me like a child. I had a fucking nightmare, so what." He quickly cast about the room for his crutches.  _Aaannnnd..._ of course, they were too far away to reach. "Sherlock, ehm, I need the loo. Can you pass me my..." John gestured to the offensive equipment in question. He felt mucous dripping out of his left nostril. He ignored it in the desperate desire to flee. "Hurry up, yeah?"

   Sherlock popped up, thrilled to do something helpful. "Absolutely, of course. Here," he presented the crutches with a flourish. John took them with a stilted nod and moved off. Sherlock stood frozen, lost and empty-handed; facing a cold, empty bed. Sentiment,  _really_ not his area. "I'll just, uhm, start breakfast, shall I? Tea and toast?" 

   Stuttering to a halt, John swiveled around to goggle at his lover. "Really? The Great Sherlock Holmes, making tea?" He made as if to stagger and lose his balance in shock. "You're kidding, right? Trying to lighten the mood?"

   Sherlock huffed, feeling slightly offended. "Yes, John, and no, John. I am completely capable of dunking a teabag and frying an egg, thank you." He experienced two blissful seconds of indignant ire before deducing the reason for John's words. John was definitely deflecting. Playing along, Sherlock swung his dressing gown over his shoulders and flounced in the direction of the kitchen. " _You_ hurry up, before the toast gets soggy."

   ***********

  The truth of it was, the toast was abysmal. If John hadn't clattered into the kitchen whilst the bread popped up in the toaster, well. The doctor envisioned his mad flatmate browning the stuff with a blowtorch. Apparently, Sherlock preferred his toast... extra crispy.

    At least it wasn't soggy.

   The tea tasted of bitter tannins and..here John blanched, last week Friday's Rogan josh. Sherlock must have used one of the cups that had lain mouldering in the sink; the food side, if he was lucky. The stale coriander aftertaste  left John more than a little bit queasy. Nevertheless, he would have overlooked the poor state of his meal if Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself. After all, the doctor mused, he had enough going on chewing charcoal. 

   Alas, no. John sensed Sherlock's opening salvo and put up a hand in defence. "Sherlock, no. I'd rather not get into deep conversation until my stomach has a chance to recover."

    "John. I didn't know. Has this gone on the whole time, the...dreaming?"

    Glaring, the little man growled and slugged back the last of his tea. "Sherlock, did you not hear me? It's fine. I'm okay. Actually, we don't need to discuss this at all, yeah? Old news."

   "Not all of it, John," Sherlock prodded warily.

   "Jesus, Sherlock, you never know when to stop." John's cup clattered to the table, tea sloshing. "My brain's full up right now. We've talked about things that... they're intensely private. We're both emotionalIy wiped out. I need a break. Please."

   The detective pushed back from the table, striding up to the window. His head dropped down to his chest and he sighed. John found that he desperately needed some air. The flat shrank exponentially the longer Sherlock wavered, shoulders rounded inward and hunched towards the floor in guilt.

 _Air._ John have to get out of the flat and burn off these insufferable feelings. He wanted to charge over the pavement until his feet bled from ripped-open blisters.

     _Fucking old man, how are you going to do that?_  Bloody hell. He was trapped.

   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am on the mend after a hellish three weeks of tooth abscess/sinus infection. Hopefully, the speed of these posts will go up now that I don't feel like I am dying of a brain tumor.


	41. I Find it Difficult, This Sort of Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is unable to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm looking through you, where did you go?  
> I thought I knew you, what did I know?  
> You don't look different, but you have changed  
> I'm looking through you, you're not the same.
> 
> "I'm Looking Through You" - The Beatles
> 
> This is probably going to be re-written fifteen more times after I post it. I'm having trouble with the line of the plot.

   "Look," John pleaded. "I mean, really. Look at me, Sherlock."

    Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms; classic markers of his pulling a strop. "I don't need to look at you to know that you're shutting me out." He faced the window, glaring at the insufferable silence down below. Apparently, London had joined John in shutting down as well. "What about your insistance on 'doing this together'? Or, is that 'together' as in me revealing all of _my_  foibles whilst you hide behind your frumpy wool jumpers?" Furiously hurt, and feeling cheated, Sherlock whirled and strode back in the kitchen. "Is this your idea of a game?"

    "Don't be ridiculous! I've never played games when it comes to you. In fact, I find this situation anything but amusing," John snarled. "How long have you been hiding things from me, hmmm? Tit for tat, love. You haven't exactly been a font of information when it comes to _your_ emotions, am I wrong?"

    "Do you hear yourself, John? Christ...I can't...I won't do  _this_ one way," Sherlock gestured between John and himself. "I spent the last how many hours enlightening you about the worst experiences of my life! And you, you won't deign to discuss with me your _nightmares?_ Really, John? With all due respect, I simply cannot suffer such emotionally stunted behavior in our relationship."

    "Oi! Is that an ultimatum? It's either full disclosure on my part or we're through?" the little man bristled, neck colouring deep red. "For Christ's sake, we just became lovers how many hours ago? Well, _that_ didn't last very long!"

   Eyes wide with indignantion, Sherlock erupted, both fists slamming down hard on the table. John jumped in unison with the myriad of char-broiled toast crumbs. These crumbs, these remnants of toast that his best friend had made just for him; falling from his plate to his lap. Bitter tannins coated the length of John's tongue. Once again, he felt his gorge rise.

   The detective snorted, sucking in a breathful of air. He found himself too rattled to form a coherent sentence. "Shit! John...just fucking shit!" He stepped back and tore the clothing off his back. Ruined flesh reflected the light from the windows. "This, John.  _This._ I can't..." He slumped into his chair with a grunt.

   John blanched, the taste of bile overtaking tannins. He wondered with a vague sort of horror if the recent stomach woes were psychosomatic; a subliminal trade-off for the the now medically relevant limp. "Sherlock..." John stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm  _sorry._ I know my that reticence - it isn't right. It isn't fair, after all that you've gone through, for me to be so...so secretive." He forced his eyes to remain focused on Sherlock, refusing to avert his gaze. He knew any withdrawal now would be misconstrued as disgust. He'd already botched this up as it was.

   Sherlock sank down even further, chair letting out a low groan of protest. It seemed imperative, suddenly, to brush away the crumbs adhered to the skin of his hands. Four fucking slices of toast, and the kitchen looked like a Hanzel and Gretal blitzkreig.

  The detective flipped his dressing gown back up over the razor-sharp crests of his shoulders, immediately wrapping the lapels across his chest. Whatever outrage he'd felt for the doctor soundlessly withered up and died. The men sat deathly still, overcome. Early morning light grew golden, gradually warming the stale air in the kitchen. Slivers of gold limned the hair of John's head. Neither man could push past the silence. 

   Just in time, heavy footsteps clomped up the stairs; heavy, exhausted feet weighed down by the woes of the world. DI Lestrade, to the rescue. Eight years of acquaintance had stripped most social niceties between the detectives. John afforded a bit more courtesy, but not much. They'd been through the nine circles of hell together, and bloody Christ, coming back had been almost as difficult. Needless to say, Greg stormed into the flat with nary a knock or a word. He had a case for his friend and associate. A case that would keep them up nights.

  "Sherlock!" he bellowed, grumbly voice made even rougher with tension. "Where are you, you great, bloody git?" The flat reeked of unrest, not so much empty as swimming in disquiet. It did not unoccupied, his detective instincts informed him, just...odd. Can a space feel lonely when lived-in? This one did, and the sensation increased his anxiety tenfold.

   The DI performed a cursory check of the sitting room, Sherlock's quarters felt vacant as well. Lestrade tromped through the door of the kitchen and was met with a psychological slap in the face. There sat his quarry, still as statues in a long-ago deserted graveyard. Neither man acknowledged his presence. "Hey, mates," he said, not so much a greeting as a question. He knew that Sherlock would read the concern in his voice. Pushing further into the smallish space felt like muscling through blackstrap molassas.

   "What's this?" He attempted some levity. "Someone's dog die?" The morbid joke landed flat as a pancake, as neither man bothered to respond. "Ohhh-kay then. What's going on with you two?"

   Sherlock took a moment to tighten the sash on his dressing gown before flashing Greg a spine-chilling grin. "Having breakfast, of course. I would have expected you to deduce this, seeing as you  _are_ a detective, roughly speaking." John neither replied to the query or made eye contact, instead grunting as he reached for his crutches.

   "Sorry, Greg, need the loo. Kettle's still hot, have a cuppa. Perhaps Sherlock will make you some toast." He circumvented Lestrade before the DI had a chance to step aside.   

   Greg noticed that John's skill with the crutches had gained significant ground, possibly because of his being stuck with that bloody depressing cane. Greg  hoped that John's future didn't hold more of the same, and he found himself looking away.  _Fucking pothole._

    "Well, then," Greg temporized. "John still dealing with - "

    "What issue was so urgent that you were compelled to disturb our repast?" Sherlock snapped. "Another ad nauseum case which a small child could solve in ten minutes? Let me guess, Anderson's on assignment, perhaps Donovan. I'd add Dimmock, he hasn't the brains that God gave a cockroach. Wait, I take that back. Cockroaches have evolved to be rather resourceful creatures. So," he snarled. "Jilted lover? Vanishing pet rabbit? Simple robbery gone wrong?  _What!_ "

   Lestrade goggled at his consultant, gobsmacked. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock. It's not half eight in the morning! Get up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?"

   "Lestrade..." Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hands. "Spit it out, will you? Just tell me. I've got a full plate as it is." Despite himself, Sherlock shot his eyes toward the en suite. "John is..." His eyes dropped to the floor with a heart-rending sigh. "I am _busy."_

   "Yeah, I get it," the DI nodded, chastened. "It's been a difficult few days for you both. I wouldn't bother you, except - this involves several kidnapped children. Three, in fact, all from different families but with the same M.O. It's a dead ringer, no pun intended, for a series of kidnappings in Manchester six months ago, obviously unsolved. The investigation just never got going."

    "Morons." Sherlock moaned, "The miserable morons of Manchester. Why am I not surprised."*

    "Yes, well," Greg rolled his eyes, "everyone's a bloody moron to you, surprise, surprise." He cleared his throat, affording him time to refocus. "As it is, all three children were found dead, each within a week of their capture. Mutilated, sexually violated...a complete nightmare for everyone involved, parents besides themselves with grief. The only redeeming aspect of this whole mess is that the all of the...visible damage occurred post-mortem." He let out a grim chuckle. "Thank God for small mercies, yeah?"

   "Yes. Small mercies. Quite." The tall man slitted his eyes, irritated. "What evidence have you collected thus far? Do you have the files to give me? Is this something I can solve from the flat?" 

   "Oi," Greg groaned, "there's the rub." As if to demonstrate, he rubbed at the back of his neck. A loud thump resonated from the hallway, disrupting his reverie. The DI stood up tall and poised for action, thumbing over the release of his gun holster. True, he was in the relative safety of a second-storey flat - but, this was the _Great_ _Sherlock Holmes' flat_. Letting down his guard might just come back to bite him in the arse.

   "John?" Sherlock bellowed, ignoring his compatriot's paranoia. 

   Another thunk sounded, closely followed by a string of extraordinary eloquent curse words. Both men recoiled in alarm, but not from the profanity itself. It was the rage underlying John's filth that sent the men's hearts to racing.

   "I'm okay!" John's voice echoed down the short hallway. "Carry on, carry on. Dropped the bloody shampoo is all. Not to worry."

   The men cast their eyes at the loo, then in turn came to land on each other. The shower was must definitely  _not_ running, nor were the taps on the sink. John had always been an abysmal liar, closed door or not. "Ehhh...how is this..." Lestrade cocked his head at the loo, "going? Is he handling things alright?"

   "Deduce for yourself, Scotland Yard," Sherlock groaned. "It's been difficult for John. Being injured, that is. You know what they say about doctors."

   "Worst patients, yeah. I get it," Lestrade nodded. "That's the thing about John. He's always got your back. It's going to be hard for him, knowing that you're out on your own. Best to watch yourself, now that the bodyguard is bedridden."

    Sherlock startled. With the turmoil of the past two days - had it really been only two days? - he'd not stopped to reflect upon John's own situation. True, his lover * _squee*_ his  _lover_  had touched on the sense of being useless now that he'd been injured. John's sorrowful sentiment was rubbish, of course it was! But had he, as John's partner and best friend, examined just how deep John's feelings went?  _Nope._ Even in his own head, Sherlock tended to pop all the "p"'s.

   Greg cleared his throat again, trying to order his thoughts. "Right. Back to the case. The answer to your question is no, I don't think so. This bastard perpetrator is a smart one. He must have used gloves, and wore different shoes for each abduction. In addition, he managed to avoid every goddamn CCTV camera in London. Also, and each child was taken differently. He didn't leave much for us to go on. So," he hedged, "Will you come?" 

   Sherlock dropped his head, silently contemplating his options. This was a terrible time to leave John, the morning's conversation interrupted as it was. Nevertheless, John would have shoved him out the door if he'd been present during Greg's pitch for aid. Childen came first for them both, kidnappings the worst of the lot of The Work. The race against time upped the ante for everyone, family and detectives alike.

   "Yes, but of course. If you'll give me twenty minutes to prepare, we can ride to the scene together." Sherlock shot up to his full 6'1" height, whirling to his room without pausing for Greg's reply on way or the other. He'd have to move fast to get himself situated, considering the lengths that he went to. The confrontation with John would have to be put on the back burner, something he was sure John would approve. To be honest, Sherlock harbored doubts that John would give the subject more leeway, and his absence in the flat furnished them both with a respite.

   Flummoxed, Lestrade eyeballed Sherlock as he flounced into his bedroom, startling as he slammed closed his door. Never, never  _ever_ in all of their days on the job had Sherlock voluntarily ridden in his car. In retrospect, Greg understood why Sherlock would find traversing London via panda car distasteful. So...what what this? What shenanigans were about to take place in his vehicle? Suspicious by nature and occupation alike, Lestrade was afraid that he knew.

   Sherlock flew about his bedroom, taking no notice that he'd obliterated the precise order of his sock index. Accompanying the DI to the crime scene presented him the unique opportunity to pump Lestrade for information that John had refused to reveal. John and the DI were close friends, surely the man could provide him with some detail?

  He only hoped that Gavin was up to the task. 

   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Absolutely no offense meant to anyone in or affiliated with Manchester. I just like to use alliteration in my writing, and couldn't resist the opportunity to use it here.


	42. I Want to Hold Your Hand, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loses focus on The Work out of feelings of guilt over John. 
> 
> There may be typos...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Certain violations of the social compact are too terrible to utter aloud: this is the meaning of the word unspeakable...Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are prerequisites...for the healing of individual victims." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> Summary:
> 
> Herein starts the segment (the next several chapters) whereby Sherlock hears the truth of John's experiences immediately following his "suicide". The situation becomes convoluted by the stress of their time-sensitive case. He is right. Sentiment clogs up his brain.  
> Yay! (or not...lol) more gratuitous use of italics by the author!  
> Also, it is not my desire to turn this story into a case fic. It's already gone from "lighthearted sexcapade" to "Notify the shrink, I need her to up my meds RIGHT NOW" as it is. I am actually using the case as a way to introduce Lestrade, who then of course, blabs. His lowdown on John forces Sherlock to reflect on how John suffered during their hiatus as well. Gee, thanks, Graham! No, honestly. Lestrade rocks. Because of him, the boys finally get their shit together, with no more secrets between them.
> 
> Having said that, John and Sherlock will be back to shagging like demented rabbits over all of London Proper within, oh I don't know, two or three more chapters.
> 
> Sex isn't a cure for distress, but it's a lovely, lovely distraction!
> 
> Mycroft will honestly consider putting out his own eyes after what CCTV ends up catching.
> 
> You have been warned...

  As the haggard DI snarled, and swerved, and muttered unintelligible oaths, the car manoevered through the thick morning traffic. "God help me, it's like driving through a bowl of my Great Aunt Adélaïde's disgusting ham and cabbage soup."

  "Are you referring to garbure?" Sherlock said, honestly curious. "I myself find it delicious; however, only when served with ventrèche. Your great aunt must have used duck confit. Then, naturally it would been gamey, and..." he paused, fingers unconsciously scrubbing across his lips, "distinctly greasy and dense on the palate."

   In spite of the chaotic traffic, Greg peered at Sherlock, nonplussed. "Christ, things _must_ be bad at Baker St. if you're attempting polite conversation about _food_." Lestrade jerked the wheel to the right to avoid smacking into the kerb, grumbling under his breath about duck fat. "What gives, Sherlock? No, really, I mean it." This last as the consultant rolled his strange, pale eyes in annoyance.

   "Sorry I asked,  _Gavin._ Carry on with the case, please." Sherlock fluffed up his curls, straightened his cuffs, and regrouped. "Focus on the facts - or, rather, thanks to the Yard's idiot blunders, lack thereof - instead of boring me with talk of my _very personal_  personal life?"

   "Yeah. Yeah, alright," Greg conceded with a deep frown. "But, John's my friend too, you know. A  _good_ friend, yeah? And, well, he didn't seem, oh I don't know, _'normal'_...like the right affable bastard he is usually. In point of fact, Sherlock," the DI bit his lip, "John looked bloody awful. Is he having a lot of post-operative pain, is that it?" The recalcitrant consultant huffed and picked at the skin around his nails. "Or, God help him, complications because of the surgery? Come on, Sherlock..." Greg's voice sounding much sharper now, "seriously." He snarled. "Spill."

    "Lestrade, you know how I hate to repeat myself. The case, if you please," Sherlock snapped. "I prefer to concentrate on one particular topic at a time, it's more efficient. Also, we are under severe time constraints at the moment, as you are most certainly aware." A small bead of blood welled up in the gap between the nail and skin of his left thumb. Sherlock stuck it between his lips, tasting copper. _Copper, carried in plasma by the protein c_ _eruloplasmin. Studies indicate that the range and mean of Cu levels in plasma lie between 0.50 to 1.93, non-differentiated by sex, age and race. Nevertheless,_   _c_ _opper levels generally decrease after a person's fifth decade, irregardless of health, and...and bloody hell, man. Get yourself together!_

 _The. Case._   

    The cab of the car filled with sour silence, each man left to stew in his thoughts. "Fine," Greg eventually conceded, clearing his throat. "Right. So, here it is. Three young boys, two six and one eight, notably small for his age. Same situation in Manchester, boys between six and eight years old, and all of them smallish in size." Sherlock sat, toying with his passenger-side window. He applied his long index finger in pushing the window lever forward, watching in a sulky gloom as the window sunk down flush into its pocket. A sudden rush of wind filled the cab, buffeting his face whilst snatching at loose tendrils of his hair. 

   Shifting irritably, Sherlock switched tactics by pulling the lever in reverse. Up rose the window with a squeak. Lestrade chose to ignore it. "All three children were taken within the first three hours after school, all in play parks. Incidentally, with this second spree, all three parks are within a ten-minute drive of your flat. Whitfield, Crabtree, and Hyde Park. Having said so, in Manchester the children lived no less than twenty miles from each other." Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, from Sherlock. _The wanker, why is he holding back?_

   The DI cleared his throat again, more harshly this time. He'd picked a hell of a time to quit smoking. Ignoring the dangers of traffic, he flicked his dark eyes back to Sherlock. The consultant sat gazing out the window in seemingly vacant disinterest. Annoyed, Greg shook his head and went on. "Anyway, the parks have lots of sheltered areas; trees and hedges, and the like. Plenty of secluded places to commit kidnapping without anybody physically witnessing it. And shit, they're children's parks, for Christ's sake - oodles of screaming kids, parents' heads-up-their-asses on the phone. Who'd notice one _more_ screaming kid being yanked by their arm to a car? Fucker sure knew what he was about, and that's no mistake."

   Lestrade had concluded his meager run-down by the time they pulled in to Whitfield Park. The Manchester file was paltry, leaving the NSY starting from scratch. Greg only hoped that Sherlock's talent at reading crime scenes might offer enough of a lead to locate and rescue all three. Raising his arms, the DI scrubbed weathered hands over his bleary eyes. Sherlock looked... _off._ It didn't bode well for the state of the case. Hell, it didn't bode well for anyone. Greg pushed away unwelcome images of a younger Sherlock, strung out and two stone lighter.  _Don't go there. At least, not until he does his "thing". It'll be obvious by then, one way or another, if he's back on the sauce._

  The duo trudged along the winding chalk path to the playground, two men on their way to a funeral. Consummate professional that he was, Lestrade pushed past his trepidation and continued to parse out the most reasonable abduction scenarios. He should have saved his breath. After several minutes of one-sided conversation, Sherlock chewing on one thumb, Greg paused to spare a long look at his friend.

   Lestrade didn't like what he saw, not one little bit.  _Shit._ _Sherlock's not even listening to me...although that behavior's not so unusual, actually normal for the git. No, it's like he's not here on a case. No, no... there's something more. It's like..._ Greg gathered his thoughts. _Sherlock's here in the physical sense, but his mind is otherwise occupied._ _Blimey,_   _I'd done better bringing Anderson with me, twat that he is._ Greg huffed out a laborious moan and was soundly ignored for his efforts.

   **************

  Every NSY employee was aware, via personal and likely painful experience, that D.I. Gregory Lestrade fucking _loathed_ investigating abductions; particularly when the victim was a juvenile. Especially when combined with a sex crime - oh,  _hell no._ Ransom cases were bad, fucking awful, clocking ticking down and all that. Greg assumed that this was why he'd gone grey before reaching the tender age of forty.     

And then, there were _these_  cases _._ Fucking  _these._  He hated  _these_  more than any other depravity on Earth. 

  Lestrade's underlings scattered like rabbits whilst under his scrutiny, fearful of his judgement of their performance. Generally, Lestrade played it cool in the field, but not with this. He'd happily rip you a new arsehole if you fucked up his case. The slightest hint of dereliction ensured a very loud, very public reprimand; disciplinary action a given. And yes, said fuck-up would absolutely be recorded in your permanent record.

  Greg would rather lose a testicle rather than report to parents whose children had suffered.

_Unharmed. Unmolested. In one piece, and still breathing._

   Because of this, Sherlock's lackluster response provoked his ire. Whilst Greg appreciated, admired, and honestly liked his consultant, Sherlock's puerile antics grated on everyone's nerves. Today's inattention chafed one thousand times worse. The few words Sherlock spoke came across cruelly uncaring. He'd made the effort be heard over the clatter of shoes on dry chalk, but spoke absently, oblivious to the fate of three kids. Eventually, Sherlock's listless chatter ceased to register, Lestrade's mind wandering away.

   The DI clutched at his stomach as he walked, drowning painfully in hot, bitter acid. He deeply regretted chugging that third cup of swill in the break room. Caffeine...the only socially acceptable vice he had left. _Christ,_ but he'd kill for just one lousy, stale cigarette. Low tar would suffice at this point. Lestrade kicked irritably at the butts scattered haphazardly here and there. The thin, white butts seemed to taunt him with the promise of a nicotine rush. Greg wasn't so far gone that he'd snag one discarded cig for personal consumption...yet. Lestrade sadly fingered the left-over lighter in his pocket, the one he purposefully "forgot" to bin. This behavior was verging into OCD territory, but he didn't have it in him to care.

    Sherlock abstained from self-scrutiny on general principle in the knowledge that he wouldn't care very much for what he saw. Ignoring the damage he left in his wake made life so much easier to bear. Now, though, things were different. Now that he cared. He loved John.

_Caring is not an advantage._

  Suddenly, a fluttering scrap of white fabric caught the DI's attention. He stepped from the path, bending down to the bush from which it hung. Nah, not cloth, just a ribbon of ripped paper, a blank piece of paper at that. Both knees creaked painfully in protest as he rose back up to a standing position. Lestrade turned to talk to Sherlock, and noticed that he was completely alone.

   Sherlock abstained from self-scrutiny on general principle, understanding that he wouldn't care much for what he saw. Ignoring the damage one left in one's wake made life so much easier to bear. Now, though. Now that he  _cared._ _Intolerable. Untenable. Unacceptable. Christ,_ _Lestrade would have fared better with Anderson at the rate that this charade is going._ Sherlock let fly a groan of irritation and retreated into the depths of the mind palace. He set the transport on autopilot, his feet free to roam where they would. After all, they weren't strolling the white cliffs of Dover. When Lestrade paused to take a look at white paper, Sherlock's legs kept striding ahead. 

    **************

 

   "Oi! Mate! Sherlock! Where'd you shove off to?" Lestrade's harried outcry startled Sherlock, snapping him free of his fugue. He executed a neat about-face and beheld the vacant playground, confused. Lestrade had left his position. Snarling, Sherlock realized that it was the other way 'round. He'd wandered away like an half-wit, caught in a tangle of thoughts.

     _Brilliant. Despite the demise of my brain, my legs are working splendidly well._ He'd meandered without purpose all the way to the back side of the playground, Lestrade by himself on the other. Glowered impatiently, Sherlock scanned over the length of the park.  _Hmmmmm._  Lestrade had been correct about one thing, at least. Children's parks made an excellent venue for stealthy abduction. His companion was nowhere to be seen.

    In fact, taking stock of his surroundings, how was this ridiculous stainless steel-slash-wood abomination considered appropriate for use by small children? Sherlock stuck a mental post-it on his forebrain: inquire with John as to what percentage of children sustain serious injury per year from playground use. Honestly...what kind of negligent parent allow their child to scale a ten-foot climbing wall?

    Shaking his head like a sopping-wet mongrel, Sherlock retraced his path on the walkway. NSY's finest, as it were, stood camouflaged behind a line of dense, lime green verge. The only hint of his whereabouts came from intermittent flashes of silvery, spiked hair - at first, barely noticeable between the foliage.  

   "Bloody hell," Sherlock groaned. Useless. For once in his life, Sherlock agreed with his brother (not that he'd EVER admit it, not even whilst lying on his deathbed). Sentiment, these  _feelings_ , melted his brain into jelly. Only John would deem his mind useful, possibly for spreading on his toast. 

    Employing keen blue-green eyes, Sherlock searched the convoluted landscape until he found what he most dreaded...two state-of-the-art CCTV cameras bolted to light poles, both within 200 ft. of his position. "Sodding hell," he muttered, smarting under his breath. "Dear brother _Mycroft_  is never going let me hear the end of it. He'll finally have in his fat sweaty hands definitive proof of my idiocy. He'll play the footage in his office for all his minions with an offering of tea and fine chocolate-filled biscuits." 

   "Oi!" Lestrade bellowed for the umpteenth time. "Where the blazes did you go? Sherlock, did you find something?" In desperation he cried, "Are you still even here, you clot, or did you bugger off like normal!?" Tilting his head, the DI strained his ears for a comeback. He heard zilch, unless he counted the sweet chirps of birds. " _Sherlock!_  Come on, you great tit! Tell me where you are. I'll come to you."

   "Ah," the consultant's voice rang strong from a distance. "That would be...no. * _Ahem!*_  Rather, not as yet." Sherlock stared agog, observing Lestrade double back on his tracks. "Look. For Christ's sake, Lestrade! Take the _left-_ hand path - no, your _OTHER_ left, you idiot! You'll find me about, oh say, thirty-two point five-eights degrees to the right. On the _right._ Christ, man, however did you achieve your position? Did money pass hands, or are your superiors so incompetent that they believed you sufficient for the job?"

   Sherlock prayed...no, as a consummate athiest he considered this poor form, and crossed his fingers in the hope that Lestrade wouldn't see past his bluster. He watched nervously as the DI tripped and swore whilst navigating through a maze of tall grass. Lestrade paused before reaching Sherlock, opting instead to re-group. Placing blocky brown hands on the back of a bench, Greg leaned over 'til he'd caught his breath.

 Sherlock made no move to join him; rather, Sherlock made no movement at all.

  Greg gave up, circumnavigating around to the seat. He dropped his arse in relief. They'd not accomplished a damn thing thus far. If no new information was forthcoming, at least he could rest his sore feet.

   "Sherlock. Come sit," Greg called, smacking the bench in encouragement. "I'm beat... worked through most of the night, as it were. There's no time to waste here, but," Lestrade grunted. "I need a ten minute breather." Not bothering to check if he was coming, the DI unconsciously patted his chest for a smoke, like nervous tic.

   Sherlock nodded glumly, marching forward. The detective dropped boneless as a rag doll to his bum, loose black Belstaff trailing like a shadow. Lestrade frowned. He brushed aside his craving for nicotine, and turned to examine his friend.

  Something, some  _thing_ , dare he label it as some honest sentiment _,_  festered below Sherlock's pale visage. With luck, his dilemma revolved something simple, say;  perhaps from Mycroft's incessantly wheedling overtures for assistance.

  Oh...he hoped that it was something simple like that.

  God help them all if he was back on drugs.

 


	43. I Want to Hold Your Hand, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets more from his consultant than asked for...or wanted. Sherlock experiences the more of the same.
> 
> Also, kind readers, I am incredibly sorry that this chapter took so stinking long to post. I've had a month-long brain fart. I NEED A BETA!!!! I have re-written this so many times it is ridiculous.
> 
> Also, going to the smokey state of Utah for a ten-day non-sex holiday (half of it, tragically, is on fire). In light of this fact, I am posting this POS now, despite still being unsatisfied with how it reads. Also, I stink at typing on my phone, so beware of typos, etc., discontinuity in wording, etc.
> 
> Ta for your patience!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "From error to error one discovers the entire truth." - Sigmund Freud
> 
> "How can I be substantial if I do not cast a shadow? I must have a dark side also if I am to be whole." - Carl G. Jung
> 
> "It is a frightening thought that man also has a shadow side to him, consisting not just of little weaknesses- and foibles, but of a positively demonic dynamism." - Carl G. Jung

  "So!" Greg cried, clapping his hands with poorly feigned enthusiasm, "What's behind all of the..." making tiny wiggling motions with his fingers, "weird lack of interest in the case? Even you have to admit that it's a good one. It's literally right down your alley, or very close to, yeah?" Lestrade nodded sagely in the direction of Baker St. Sherlock grimaced, twisting his lips in a moue.

   Greg ignored Sherlock's puss face and sallied forth with his argument. He raised one weathered finger for each point. "So. Let's look at what we're dealing with. An authentically clever serial killer, a mounting list of victims, a seriously depressing lack of witnesses, not _one_ solid lead..." Greg peered at Sherlock; deeply worried but trying his damnedest to hide it. "Ooooh!" Lestrade sarcastically sing-songed. "Let's not leave out the ridiculously short time frame with which we have to work, and other suchlike dilemmas." Lestrade wound up the performance by flourishing a pair of saucy jazz hands and a cheekily open-mouthed wink. Sherlock sighed, exhausted by Lestrade's useless prattle. He examined the fine warp and weft of his coat, longing to crawl into its depths for a nap.

   "It's not the best time for a case of ennui, Sherlock," the DI went on with increasing aspersion. "Christ, you're freaking me out, to be honest; and I'm already wound up to my gills. Right now - at this moment - three children's lives are on the line. So, gimme your problems or whatnot, and then delete them. It. Whatever. Who knows, I might actually have an answer for...well," Lestrade cut himself off hearing the utter ridiculousness of his statement. "Right. Whatever the case, we need to get off our fat duffs and find the maggot who nabbed them. After which, I'll go to mine and have a very stiff drink. Hell, maybe two, if we're quick. What you end up doing is your business."    

  Lestrade’s entreaty fell flat in the silence. "Holy hell, man," he snarled, teeth shining wolf-like white. "Now, enough of this business!" Sherlock flinched at Greg's impressive vitriol, skittering a foot further down the bench. He folded his long body in half, pale hands settled restlessly on restless kneecaps. The silicone straight-jacket made his skin crawl, but Sherlock didn't have it in him to care. He was too appalled at his childishness to scratch. Instead, his skin rippled like a dog's infested with fleas. Lestrade just went on, and on, and on. He pictured the DI in a pink bunny suit and beating a drum.

    _Not good. Lestrade, do shut up. Pink in no way compliments your Mediterranean  complexion._

   On, and on, and on. In light of Lestrade's long-winded diatribe, Sherlock deemed it prudent to seek the Mind Palace. If provoked beyond his waning restraint, he might do (would do) something later judged a bit not good. Mind over matter, as it were.

   _Wouldn't you agree, John? I know you would - if you were here by my side._

   He let it go, and Greg's voice grew irrelevant. Horrified but intrigued, the genius's laser-sharp eyes had refocused, fixed on a pair of callused musician's fingers. They intermittently trembled in his lap. The out-of-control digits were someone else's. His hands never shook unless so ordered, mainly whilst dissembling in front of a suspect. _Or, whilst being mutilated by conspirators of a multifarious criminal network._

    _No. Not today. Not right now. Just stop it - stop this, now._  

   Sherlock squeezed the fingers into fists, cramming them to the bottom of his pockets. Some bad sensation amassed between his ears, preparing to explode.  _Stop it. Just stop shaking. Please stop...is this what John felt when his left hand - bah!_  Feigning annoyance, Sherlock sniffed and straightened, feigning an air of disdain. Those...the  _hands_ misbehaved, he himself would keep hold of what control he'd maintained - and exercise it, fight to stay strong.  

  Having no discernible effect, Greg sighed and shut up. He sat, pinching the bridge of his nose, and assumed Sherlock was gearing up for a sulk. Greg desperately hoped that Sherlock had at least one decent splinter stuck up his bum, a pain in his own arse for a change. _Bugger all._ _This isn't "normal", even for him. Sherlock always works cases concerning kids; well, okay - if the kids are still breathing, that is. What the hell is his problem?_

"Sherlock!" Lestrade implored, nothing if not stubborn. “I sodding need something to go on. So, snap out of whatever this...” Greg gestured towards the  figure, “...is.” Sherlock flinched, all snark withering away. He slipped deeper into the folds of his coat, at once soothed. Despite the risk of further provocation, Sherlock flipped up his collar for camouflage. As such, he missed Greg's decreasing irritation and increasing concern.

_Is this a "Danger Night", happening during the day? He_ _obviously needs John to be here to keep hold of him. Shit, who am I kidding, I need John here, because there is something very seriously fucking wrong. And, I have no clue what to do._

   A veteran of the RAMC and one of the bravest men Greg had the honour to work with: Dr. John Bloody H. I'll-Kick-Your-Arse Watson. Avid blogger, fine physician, and Sherlock's tried-and-true, loyal best friend.

    John Watson. He kept Sherlock Holmes right.

    John Watson. He kept Gregory Lestrade sane. 

    John Watson. Likely going mental in their flat.

  _Enough._  John was not here, so he would have to make do. When needs must... Lestrade reached out and cuffed the back of Sherlock’s head. The sharp crack of his hand against that incredibly thick skull pierced the park’s eerie quiet like a gunshot. Caught completely off balance, because…really? Et tu, Lestrade? Sherlock's self-control imploded and he snapped. He'd survived for two horrid years running on brainpower, and more importantly, sheer primal instinct. Presented with possible betrayal by a trusted compatriot, Sherlock's lizard brain took charge and he bolted.

   Matter over mind, as it were.    

  Actually, bolting _was_ the plan, naturally being a fine course of action for a lizard. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s human legs were crossed like a pretzel, and he stumbled face-first towards the ground. In all fairness, lizards never, ever cross their legs. Lestrade, possessor of his own knee-jerk instincts, launched up off his arse and caught his friend. He strong-armed the genius to a stand-still, or rather, to stay in one place. Sherlock howled in desperation and thrashed like a fish out of water. It took all of Lestrade's experience in subduing suspects to hang on and keep Sherlock contained. If Greg's mind touched briefly on the necessity of using handcuffs, he never admitted to it; not even privately and two drinks in.

  The men's melee was unbelievably loud and extremely inappropriate for the setting. They would have garnered a whole host of attention, not to mention several squads of policemen, if only there had been an audience to pay heed. Greg grunted, red-faced and panting whilst he fought to keep Sherlock secure but unscathed. Sherlock flailed, floundering in the gravel, and held no reciprocal concerns about 'scathing' Lestrade. Needless to say, neither man had practiced healthy living habits during their formative years, and both were slightly past their prime. There was a fair bit of huffing and puffing, before Greg rallied. He hauled Sherlock up to his feet.

   The second that Sherlock's shoes touched the ground, he butted against Greg in a last-ditch attempt to get free. Lestrade's arms persevered, but after fifty-two years of hard work, his knees had no choice but to collapse. The men fell back together, one eight-limbed entity on the bench. Sherlock had the easier of it, smashing back into the DI's solar plexus. Once Greg's arse hit the bench his arms split apart like a Christmas cracker, Sherlock rolling off his lap in relief. The genius settled, resuming his previously hunched position as if the last five minutes had never happened. Lestrade wheezed, grimacing to breathe through the pain. If Sherlock bolted again, Lestrade would bid him bon voyage.

   The DI's physical stamina had swiftly waned as of late - a strange state of affairs, to be sure. Most assuredly, had nothing whatsoever to do with his increase in smoking. At any rate, Greg's chest hurt. He rubbed small circles into his pectorals, the muscles unexpectedly sore after being Sherlock's airbag. He pushed his right hand under his left shoulder, half-convinced that his heart would pop straight through his ribcage if he didn't take the time to simply breathe. 

  It was during their brief détente that Greg heard an oddly monotone hum. Turning, he tracked the odd sound back to Sherlock. The buzzing sounds, were in fact, Sherlock's voice. The detective's taut lips twitched as he spit out an inaudible stream of invective. Sherlock's words, if words they were, were muttered too softly to hear. Lestrade bit his bottom lip and cautiously inched a bit closer.

   Sherlock shifted as well, slipping lower. At this rate, he'd be resting on his tail bone.

   “What?" Greg gently prodded. "Sherlock, I'm not understanding what you're saying. You are, eh... talking to _me,_ yeah?" Sherlock made no reply.

    "Right. Right. Okay," Lestrade plowed on. "Say it again, Sherlock, only louder this time and without sounding like you're chewing on your shoe.”

 The genius ignored him, mumbling in an unending, unintelligible loop. Greg dithered, fearful about triggering another...episode? Nevertheless, he chanced it and invaded Sherlock's personal space.     

 _What the everloving fuck am I hearing?_  The rich olive brown skin of Greg's arms exploded in an epidemic of goose flesh. The silvered hair on his nape stood on end. Sherlock, by nature and practice, was a remarkably articulate man. His mouth also sped though a million words per minute - on a bad day.

   And yet, here he lay sprawled on a park bench, apparently speaking in tongues.  _I need an old priest and a young priest...but hold the pea soup, ta very much._  Greg pretended that his bollocks hadn't just shrivelled up like raisins, and just  _listened._

_Wait._

This, what the DI heard, wasn't just gibberish. _'kay...change of plan. Hold_ _the priests and send me a certified linguist._     

   Sherlock spoke in some language not...English. Why wasn’t he speaking in English? It's not like Greg  _himself_ was bilingual, so evidently Sherlock _wasn't_ talking to him. But, considering that the park lacked in other people, maybe...he was talking to the birds?

   The language itself sounded familiar, similar to Russian, so maybe Polish? No, not quite it. But, ah...Greg had it now. Sherlock was speaking in Croatian, or possibly Bosnian; definitely a Slavic tongue. He should know, after all. The family upstairs generally kept to English, saving Croatian for their ear-piercing rows. Yet, despite Greg begrudging exposure, this was best an educated guess. It went without saying, although he'd surely said it at one time or another...foreign languages weren’t his division.

    For fuck's sake, he'd held his job now for some nine-odd years, he should be capable of handling a crisis, Sherlock's crises in particular. Lord knows, he'd handled so many of them before John came along; Sherlock much preferred him over Mycroft. Lestrade dealt with many a cock-up for the visibly strung-out, distinctly unwashed, twenty-something genius consultant. That is, before John came.

   The DI, now chewing his lip in earnest, held his breath and cautiously rose up for a look-see. Sherlock's long legs knocked fretfully about, leather shoes gouging holes in the dirt. And, although Sherlock's limbs were growing increasingly twitchy, his words trickled into silence; the only noise now being his quick, shallow gasps whilst he breathed. 

 _Hyperventilating, Sherlock Holmes is  hyperventilating. Mr. "I scoff at Sentiment" has legitimately gone off his trolley. Hoo boy. He's_ _going to pass out if he doesn't settle down._  It was time to stop dithering and _do,_ before Sherlock wound up in hospital.

 “Sherlock?” Greg murmured, "you okay?" Nothing. He cleared his throat and waded into the deep end of the pool. “Sherlock? Can you look at me?" No response. "That is, I mean to say that I - Jesus Christ," Lestrade scraped at his head using his fingernails. "Look. I'm really sorry about the head slap. Truly, really very sorry. It was completely out of line, extremely unprofessional of me, and," Lestrade groaned, "I'm so, so sorry that I smacked you and created this...eh...upset."

  “Sherlock?” Greg placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

 Instantly, chaos ensued.  

  Sherlock sprang to his feet and gracefully turned, backhanding Lestrade in the face. The unusual ennui, apparently, had vanished. Shifting out of Greg's reach, Sherlock bounced on his toes like a boxer.

   “Oi! Jesus Christ!” Lestrade yowled, scrambling to his own feet in a series of awkward, shuffling jerks. To his benefit, Greg's nose had been broken and _was_ bleeding like a sonofabitch. “Fuck. Fuck! _Fuck!_ What in the everloving fuck are you doing?!” the DI bellowed.

  Sherlock’s response merely upset Lestrade more, as he cocked back one elbow; pumped, primed, and ready for discharge.  Greg recalled how very pointed Sherlock’s elbows appeared when pressed against the fabric of his sleeves, little pyramids. Greg reeaally wasn’t interested in finding out how pointy they _felt_  due to plowing into his ribcage or kidney, especially since he was already in pain.

  Sherlock’s left hand calmly rose up and cupped his right fist, optimizing his arm's strength and stability. Head cocked and eyes flashing, the consultant morphed from a fish into a malnourished and malevolent bird of prey.

  Greg wondered whether or not he'd sustained a concussion.

 _“Sher_ _lock!”_ Greg warbled, not caring for the tremulous tone of his voice. He was now certifiably freaked out; and besides, in a bloody fuck ton of pain. The man's silvered eyes, unusual at best, juddered, tripping across the width of their sockets. Eventually, Sherlock's gaze slid upwards, meandering a foot over Lestrade’s spiked hair. Greg felt a sudden, pressing need to let go of his bladder. Sherlock wasn’t… _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ anymore. The man zeroed in on him was a stranger. The man before him should be sectioned.

  “Sherlock?” Lestrade breathed, “What...shit. Just...shit. Are you okay?” In retrospect, it was an odd thing to ask. After all, he was the one who was hemorrhaging _from his face_. Yet. The speed of which Sherlock had lost it. The reason for which he had done so. Granted, Sherlock was unpredictable, but it was the first time the wanker had punched him. Come to think of it, this might be the first time that Sherlock had initiated physical contact. Sherlock only ever touched John that he'd noticed, other than the inestimable, squeezable Mrs. Hudson.

  Greg needed to re-establish control, and right quick; the alternative being a quick trip to Bart's. _Oi, and now wouldn't that be a tad awkward_. Sherlock never met a mental health professional he didn't (dis)like  ~~loathe~~. Lestrade couldn't blame him, considering the frequency with which he'd been subjected to eval. Psychiatrists tended to be patronizing prats. To stick it to Mycroft and the arsehat attending, Sherlock acted out random diagnoses. At best, Sherlock's shenanigans provided him with lukewarm amusement; but mostly, served to kill time. Inevitably, Mycroft lost patience. He'd pull the necessary strings, and Sherlock walked. This craziness, though, was no mere game of a juvenile genius. He judged Sherlock's behavior as very real and unscripted. How Lestrade wished it wasn't so.

 “Let’s...right. Alright. Okay.” Greg took a gamble. “Can I take out my phone and call John?" 

  Sherlock blinked three times in a row, mind gradually clearing of madness. His eyelids relaxed, blown pupils shrinking. His eyes slipped across Lestrade's form. The DI's been smart, saying the only word in the entire English language capable of attracting his  interest. 

   _John._

  Despite the power behind the name, Sherlock remained immersed in the throe of adrenaline. He registered the breakneck speed of his heart rate - 130 bpm. Respiration rate 95 breaths per minute. Calculating his blood oxygen level was impossible without the proper equipment; nevertheless, Sherlock gauged it to be abnormally based on the sensation of light-headed nausea. Lestrade's consultant chewed over the evidence, and came to the most probable conclusion. This high-functioning, self-proclaimed sociopath had lost control, and succumbed to the... Christ. He'd wigged out. He'd done his nut, to quote John, and with _Lestrade,_ of all people. He was his only other friend - and a high-ranking DI to boot.

  He'd hurt Greg. He'd hurt Greg.

  Sherlock's face paled. He felt embarrassed, and petrified, and unbearably ashamed of his actions. Snapshot images flashed before his eyes: Lestrade gawping as he rambled on in Serbian, and then, Holy Jesus Christ, landing a blow. Sherlock wanted nothing more at this point, than to crumble up and die, turning to dust.    

  Greg warily studied his friend whilst more surreptitiously assessing his own damage. Cautiously, oh so carefully, he lifted his fingers and gently ran them over cracked bone. Frankly, it didn't feel good, pun intended. Freshets of red blood trickled down to his wrists, splattering to the ground with a _thwack!_ Greg struggled to downplay the injury, nervous of triggering a third...episode, but this was Sherlock observing him. Fat chance of that happening, yeah?

  Sherlock's pale, but sane eyes conducted calculated sweeps across Lestrade's face. The DI stared amazed, as the genius's face went from impassive disinterest to crumpled in on itself in misery. For the first time in Letrade's company, Sherlock wept.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I stuck a lot of the BBC script in here, but they are my favourite lines, so...yeah.
> 
> If confused about Lestrade wearing a bunny suit, google Energizer Bunny. LOL.


	44. Enemy Mines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is a very good friend.
> 
> OOOOOOKKKKAAAAAYYYY...AO3 is trying to kill me. I keep trying to update but not post, and AO3 just reaaallly wants to post my unfinished chapter. So. FINE. After three attempts to edit without posting, I am giving up and posting little bits at a time over the next two days. Sorry.
> 
> PLEASE understand that I am revising this at the moment! The chapter in total is much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a fix 'cause I'm going down  
> Down to the bits that I left uptown  
> I need a fix 'cause I'm going down  
> \- The Beatles, "Happiness is a Warm Gun"
> 
>  
> 
> "Self-harm - the world will come at you with knives anyway. You do not need to beat them to it."  
> \- Caitlin Moran

  "Sherlock," Greg spoke gently, "Can we sit down, please, and work this out?" Their eyes stuck together as if magnetized. They'd managed to work past a myriad of issues, but nothing held a candle to _this._ Not like _this,_ and how they'd work through _this_ remained an impenetrable mystery. Neither man moved as a consequence, except to shiver from the rush of adrenaline.

 

 -----

 When Lestrade first crossed paths with Sherlock, he was flying higher than a kite on Mt. Everest. His brain swam, or rather drowned, within a carefully calculated cocktail of chemicals. Sherlock preferred to shoot up, injecting a daily regimen of heroin, cocaine, morphine, and on the occasions that he sank deeper into his malaise, a splash of Fentanyl. He was like a single brilliant-green olive, sinking to the bottom of the glass. To Greg, the baby-faced genius was something out of a Charles Dickens novel; malnourished, mistreated, and adrift in an ill-favored life.

 

  -----

"Sherlock? What do you say? Just between mates us, yeah?" Greg bobbed his head appealingly, voice pitched high and hopefully nonthreatening. "Sherlock, are you hearing me? _Shit._ Normally, I'd be the last person to say this, but I'm fucking terrified."

  ----

 

 The Sherlock Greg knew opted to spar with his intellect. Physical violence was such a predictable and pedestrian affair, a waste of his valuable time. _Hand-to-hand combat is more John's area of expertise, don't you think?_ an oily voice nattered in Greg's mind. _Sherlock prefers to draw blood employing his rapier wit. It's Dr. Watson who brings guns to a knife fight._

Lestrade told his brain to shut it. He desperately needed to think. True, the Sherlock Holmes that he had known eschewed fisticuffs except for self-defence, but _ah,_ there was the rub. The man had been dead for the last three years, so to speak. The specifics of the mission remained classified, including the stunt where he'd jumped off a building. _Bloody berk shows up cool as a cucumber, as if he'd been on holiday instead of six feet under. It's just like the bastard, doing that. Still, God only knows what awful shi-_ He started, the line of reasoning cutting off full stop. Sherlock's head jerked forward and dropped, bobbing one...two ...three times before falling limply to his shoulder. Lestrade watched Sherlock shake his hands twice, re-set his head on his shoulder, and stand as still as a statue. _He's gone to his Mind Palace, I think? Best use the time to regroup._

So.

  Shit.

  It was impossible to think rationally at the moment. His nose hurt like fuck-all, there was a critical case going on, and here he was, trapped in the sixth circle of hell.

Greg knew that Sherlock's wanderings led him to the eastern regions of Europe to the southern coast of Asia (thanks to a slightly sozzled John at their weekly pub crawls). Of course he'd have to speak the language to blend in, that only made sense. _Rache!"_ Anderson chimed in. " _It means 'revenge' in German."_

 However, the tidbits of information he gathered were given to him by John, who was almost as much in the dark. Sherlock never once offered information, and Lestrade had never dared ask. In light if all this, how could he possibly approach this without upsetting Sherlock a second time? He never worked blind, if he could help it. That's why he employed Sherlock in the first place!

 Greg internally winced at the thought of questioning his friend.

  "Say, _Sherlock...have any PTSD-inducing experiences whilst you were pulling a James Bond out east? Any bad dreams as of late? What do you say, mate; let's hash this thing out in a pub."_ No. Greg could easily push Sherlock too far, based on his experiences with John. So here they stood, two men on the brink of hysteria.

 Sherlock's quicksilver eyes flickered, rolling up to burn holes in Lestrade. The DI felt naked under such scrutiny, and wanted to shrink down into his clothing. Now Sherlock paused, his eyelids fluttering as they did when he was confused. Greg half-wondered if was he would whip out his magnifying glass for more detail.

  No. Instead, Sherlock lifted his hand to touch his own face, stroking the planes of his nose. A long index finger flexed, _tap tap tapping_ at the spot where Lestrade's own nose bent and angled sideways. Sherlock's pupils swelled, the irises reduced to transparent blue rings. _Fuck._ The DI wanted nothing more than to run back to the squad car as quickly as his ancient arse could carry him. _Fucking fuck. Fucking fucking fuck._

 Now, Sherlock's chest rumbled, the noise edging into a wild groan. Greg gaped in stupefied horror as his friend thrust hands into his hair and started yanking _,_ and twisting, and ripping out clumps of brown curls. "Sher..." Greg gargled. He felt like he was choking, a repellent combination of mucous, blood and saliva clogging his throat. He hocked up a wad of fluid and spit.

 _"Oi!_ Sherlock. Stop! Jesus Christ, stop!"

  Sherlock obeyed Lestrade's command - mostly. He switched tactics, releasing his hair to box at his ears and his face. _This._ This was terrifying, seeing Sherlock not be Sherlock. Lestrade had to end this before Sherlock seriously hurt himself. The DI darted forward, chasing after Sherlock's forearms until he had a firm grasp on both wrists. Sherlock howled and resisted, Lestrade's touch overwhelming his senses. The scene was more that strange, the park around them held in stasis throughout their increasingly halfhearted wrestling match. Fortunately, the struggle didn't last long; both men too emotionally overwrought to keep it up. Sherlock gave in, body plainly exhausted. Again, the men stopped and stared at each other; wide-eyed and frozen in position. This time, it was the genius who shattered the silence.

  "Lestrade," Sherlock whimpered, visibly listing to his right. They peered at each other under the flesh-and-blood bridge of their arms. "There is an eminent chance I will pass out, perchance within the next thirty seconds...plus or minus six point two-five." The man's left knee bobbled willfully, advertising its desire to collapse.

 _Perchance?_ _What the ever-loving fuck?_ _What, is he quoting Shakespeare now?_ The DI promptly snapped from his fugue into management mode. Drawing even closer, Greg towed Sherlock closer to his own chest to steady him. "Right. Right. Okay. Listen mate, let's get go back to the the bench."

 Sherlock grunted and shuffled side-to-side as if drunk. "I must apologize..." he muttered tiredly, "for the recent reprehensible behavior. My loss of control was appall -"

 "Shut it, man," Lestrade cut him off. "Let's - let's try focussing on one thing at a time, yeah? We can chinwag all you want after you sit down." Greg half-guided, half-pulled Sherlock to drift forward; manoeuvering him back to the bench by his shoulders. "'Kay," he sighed in relief. "Now, breath for me, Sherlock. I can't have you fainting on me in the middle of this bloody deserted park. We're a bit far from my car for me to carry you." Lestrade snaked his arm between the backrest and Sherlock until he had a secure hold of the man's torso, strong hand nesting under the arch of his arm.

  The flow of blood from Greg's nose had finally tapered off, crusted clots of blood plugging up his nasal cavities. He sounded like he'd come down with a head cold. He surreptitiously peered up at the nearest CCTV camera. Maybe they weren't as isolated as he'd first thought. God, he hoped Mycroft would stay out of it, for once. He had enough to deal with as it was. 

  The park was so very quiet, peaceful in the wake of their tussle. Lestrade held Sherlock as if he were a child. In fact, it felt kind of...nice. He might have lingered, arms glued around Sherlock, if the shrill bleat of Lestrade's phone hadn't sounded. They startled as if goosed, and pulled apart. _"What!"_ The DI snarled into the mouthpiece. "You'd better have something good to tell me, Dimmock. I'm in the middle of something important." Sherlock shot Lestrade a confused, side-long glance.   _"What?!_ _When!_ How did you..." Greg tapered off, his jaw dropping.

 _Catching flies._ Sherlock thought, recalling his mother's oft used phrase. _I wonder what that idiot Dimmock's got up to now._

"Seriously? And all three are...yeah. Yeah, that's...Christ, I can't believe it. Good work, man. I can't. I bloody can't. And what hospital were the boys brought to?" Lestrade snorted in disbelief. "Of course, of course it would be Bart's." Swallowing hard, he added, "And the parents? Where you able to contact all three families?" The DI huffed as if he'd just run a marathon - and won. The conversation took over fifteen minutes to complete, Lestrade swearing and demanding ever more details. Incredibly, the boys' torment was over. A ninety-eight year old American ex-pat had witnessed, in her own words, "I seen shit going down at that place! That asshole pervert cock-sucking sonofabitch faggot kidnapped those three poor little boys - and I just knew that I had to call it in.

  The case was settled, the boys intact - in all the ways that it mattered. The damage to their psyches, well. That would be addressed at a later time.

  Once the perpetrator understood that he'd been sussed out, he'd shot himself point-blank in the mouth. All three boys had been wearing his blood and bits of brain tissue when they'd been rescued from his fruit cellar. Lestrade was profoundly grateful that he'd not been there as witness. He saw enough gore as it was; enough for a lifetime, far too much. Thank God that this hadn't been added to the list.

  "So. I take it that the case has been solved, then?" Sherlock rumbled. "That's a good thing, isn't it?" He scowled in annoyance at his stupidity. Of course it was a good thing that the killer had been caught. He should have formed the sentence as a statement, not a question.   

  "Well, yes!" Greg burst out. "Christ Almighty, but that's a load off my shoulders." He swiveled to look at Sherlock. "The boys are safe! They just went to hospital for a look-see. And Goddamned Dimmock was the...well, of course. You'd probably figured all this out during my phone call. I know how you hate it when people repeat."

  "S'all right. It's fine, it's all good," the genius mumbled. "Good news _should_ be repeated, I think.

  "Yeah, I guess you're right," Lestrade smiled wanly. "I - _uhh._ Right."

  "Sherlock," Greg spoke gently, "Now. How's about we both take a deep breath and work this through." He struggled to sound soothing, oblivious to the fierce hammering of his heart. "So," the DI swallowed, nervously parsing his words, "can you please tell me, what's all this," he gestured vaguely in the air, "uhm...your _upset_...all about?"

 "I..." Sherlock gnawed on his full bottom lip, eventually pulling off strips of skin between his teeth. "It's complicated. Obviously," he choked out, a pathetic approximation of a laugh, "that's an understatement. Moving on, however, I believe that you're still due that apology."

  Greg waved him off with a snort, albeit, a muted one. "Nothing doing. Apologies aren't my first priority right now. And at any rate, in my department at least, broken noses are par for the course. No. No, what I'm really interested in hear - "

  "I find myself rather disinclined to say," Sherlock cut him off quickly. "Clearly, at present I am fine. Now, can we get back to the - "

 Lestrade rallied, getting back his wind. "Yes, well, considering that I have a bloody fractured nose, and not ten minutes ago you were off your rocker talking nonsense, eh...sorry about that, I mean speaking something not _English_. Not in English, rather." He winced at his fumbling delivery. "Or, at least, that's what it seemed like to me." Sherlock curled inward, almost cowering.

"Irregardless, I think that you were experiencing some form of flaaa - " Greg abruptly gurgled, the very picture of a cat hacking up a hairball, "...were in a wonky altered state," Lestrade hastily amended what he'd been about to blurt out. _Lestrade, mind your stupid goddamned tongue._ "I _do_ believe that this discussion takes precedence, or at least must happen before talking about anything else."  

 The tall man huffed so hard that his fringe flew away from his brow. "Honestly, Lestrade. I cannot imagine one valid reason why my personal problems should take precedence over The Work."

 "Sherlock, look. I can't bring you out in the field if your," the DI made finger quotes, "'personal problems', which quite honestly is a shit way of to describe the last twenty minutes, interfere with investigations. 'The Work', as you put it, is going to have to take a back seat." Lestrade scrutinized his friend, hoping that his next words didn't blow up in his face. He forged ahead, not giving Sherlock the time to object. "Now, you need to be honest. Is there any chance that you've relapsed?"

 "No!" Sherlock spluttered, eyes bulging out of their sockets. "I am _clean!"_ He bounced about on his bum. "I'll have you know that I haven't had the privilege of smoking one bloody cigarette since I've returned - or rather, after John came back. And, Christ, that's not from lack of trying. John, he..." his voice trailed off in the silence. "He watches me like a hawk."

  "He...what? Wait. Did he leave and go somewhere that I don't know about?" Greg cocked his head, confused. "When was that?"

 Sherlock didn't deign to reply.

 "Right. Back to playing Mr. Mysterious, and still so early in the day," the DI sniped. "It had crossed my mind that something's off between you two. You both seemed, I don't know...a tad stressed when I came by." Sherlock's compulsion to fidget was catching, and Lestrade bit through the tip of his thumb nail. He studied the abused digit glumly, spitting splintered nail from his mouth. "Frankly, he looked right pissed off."

  Sherlock sighed, the weight of the world on his shoulders. _Just call me Atlas."RUURRR!"_  he growled, the impulsive expression of ire piercing Greg's skull.

  Lestrade popped up off the bench in alarm, unconsciously balanced on the balls of his feet. "Shit! Sherlock! You alright?" He did his best to read Sherlock's face, made difficult as the man had turned away. "Listen. We can talk about this later, yeah? I mean, let bygones be bygones," he snorted, "you know, _heh_ , the broken nose and all?" _Crap! Did I just say that out loud?_ "You know what? Let's forget it. I can ring you a cab to go home. I _am_ a detective, broadly speaking. I can help wrap this one of my own."   

 "Oh, do sit down and stop whingeing," Sherlock barked. "I'm _all right._ If you were actually skilled in detective work, you would have deduced that instead of acting like an idiot. Stop being such a child and sit down."

 Greg gaped, wearily scrubbing his palms across his eyes. He wished that he could start the whole day over, starting by making a large detour around Baker St. "Bloody hell," he groaned. "I do believe you, actually, considering that you're being such a dick." Sherlock rolled his eyes with a huff. "Right." the DI said, "So much for that apology, yeah?" He gingerly resumed his place next to Sherlock. "So. What do we do now?"

"Obvious. We talk about John."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about the the foul-mouthed American. I try to use British slang accurately, although I am not sure if I do or not. Anyway, it was fun just to let my Americanisms fly without having to think about it too hard.


	45. How to Defuse a Bomb, in Three Easy Steps.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heaping spoonful of angst with a healthy dollop of soul-cleansing confession on the side. Seriously, Lestrade is a very good friend.
> 
> This is the second half of the following chapter that wasn't ready for submission when AO3 thought that it was.

  Lestrade parked half-arsed, in front of the very first café he saw, despite of its manky appearance. "What do you say," he breathed heavily, cutting off the engine. "I could go for a coffee, howz'bout you?" He rolled his head against the head rest to eyeball his disaster of a consultant.  

  Sherlock gazed vacantly out of the window, devoid of energy. "Mmmm. I'm actually not thirsty at present, but thank you for the very kind offer." A second later, he jerked around to face Lestrade. "Please tell me that you weren't planning on entering the café as you are, in your current physical condition?" His eyes widened. "And with your clothes looking like...is this a poorly conceived attempt to garner public attention so as to have me brought into custody?"

  "No!" Greg startled. "No, nothing like that, Sherlock. I swear!" He rubbed his forehead in exhaustion. "Actually, I was hoping that you'd go in for both of us, and we'd drink it here, in the car. I'm not much up for anything other than a hefty dose of caffeine and some painkillers," this last said with an apologetic smile. "Honestly, if you're not up to going in, which I completely understand, mind, I'll just drive us back to the flat. I should...yeah. I should have John have a look-see at my," he gestured lamely, "my nose. I don't know much how this goes, with broken noses. I might need to have the damn thing re-set."

   Sherlock narrowed his eyes with cool, somewhat clinical assessment. "Unfortunately, I believe that you are correct in your assertion. It does need a bit of doctoring, if you're planning on it to heal properly and without blemish." He turned away, hoping to hide his grieved expression. "John will be able to attend to it. He's accumulated quite an impressive cache of medical supplies from the surgery; although, don't tell anyone I said that."

   "Right," the DI snorted, instantly regretting it as a fresh wave of pain inundated his face. "I'll keep mum. In fact, I'm surprised that he's not dragged home an entire surgical unit, considering the ridiculous risks you both take."

   Sherlock hummed in agreement. "I'm quite sure that I'd be in much worse condition without John." He made a noise akin to that of an abandoned puppy's. "I've said it before...but, I'd be lost without my blogger." He dropped his head. "He's saved my life so many times, and in so many ways. I can't..." His voice broke off with a crack. "Lestrade! Fuck, I - "

   Greg lifted his head from from the car headrest in shock. Sherlock never,  _ever_ used foul language, at least not in his presence. Even when he'd been off his tits on drugs, Sherlock maintained an air of comportment. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

   "No! Honestly, what a supremely inane question, Greg. Why am I even surprised?" Sherlock wailed, hiding his face in his hands. The day had already been too long, and it was nowhere close to being over. Christ, did he want it to be over and done, a repellent sliver of time destined for deletion.

   The DI's face drained of color. "Sherlock!" he squawked. "You said my _name._ My Christian name. Correctly. Now, I know that it's a bit of a joke with us, well, more with you than with me...but, Jesus. Sherlock. Please. Please! Tell me what's wrong!"

 

    -------

    John rubbed his forehead in exhaustion. Sherlock and Greg had now been gone for several hours, and not a word had been sent from his newfound lover. It made John feel extremely ashamed of his behavior. He'd caught the kicked-puppy look on Sherlock's face after he'd lost his temper and been rude. He was  _always_ losing his temper. Another gift from dear old Dad.  _I've got to stop thinking about my father as dear. He wasn't dear in any way, shape, or form. He was a drunken arse who got off on beating up his wife. He hit Mom. And what have I done but follow in his footsteps?_ _I hurt the person that I love the most._

_I'm a bad man, that I am. I'm utter shit._

_\-------_

 

They drove a circle around the city, and then through it, even the seedier parts. Despite his earlier protestations, Sherlock detailed the events of the prior three years; the one exception being the new developments he'd shared with John. He had to hand it to Greg.  _Greg._..yes, he'd always known his name. Sherlock's blatant disregard in "remembering" it had everything to do with shame, and fundamentally nothing to do with how he regarded the man himself.

   He loved Greg.  _There._ Sherlock thought it, admitted it to himself. Whether or not he'd ever say the words, "Thank you Greg, for saving me, and I love you for it" would be another story, set aside for an entirely different day. And, in another lifetime, quite possibly. Expressing his true feelings to John had been a heartbreaking affair as it was. Enough heartbreak for a lifetime, as it were.

   Greg listened. He didn't ask any questions, but rather let Sherlock take him own time when he paused. There were a lot of pauses in Sherlock's narrative, whereby he stopped to gather his thoughts. His story was a long one, and he'd only shared it with two other people in the world. One of those people had been flesh and blood...his brother Mycroft. The other person, obviously, was with his lover; the incredible, and fundamentally inestimable Dr. (Captain) John Watson. Gregory Lestrade was a good man, a good friend. It was time that Sherlock acknowledged it, in fact, long overdue.

   The men eventually moved on to harder topics. It was here in which Greg took a greater role. Sherlock found the fortitude with which to answer them, and speak honestly. Greg's entire face throbbed in agony, and yet the detective didn't care one whit. Sherlock had finally come home. 

   It was half four in the afternoon by the time they reached Baker St. Sherlock felt empty, but Lestrade's heart was full up.

 

      
 

  

 


	46. There's Always an Off Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attends to Lestrade, sort of, and a new line of communication ensues.
> 
> Just an FYI: the last chapter had some inconsistencies...that's what I get for posting before proof-reading. Anyway, I fixed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “To confront a person with their own shadow is to show people their own light.” - Carl G. Jung

"So," Lestrade sighed, shifting the car into park. "Question. How much of all this history have you told John?"

  "All of it. He's heard every disgusting and despicable detail. I didn't leave anything out," Sherlock muttered, "and neither did I just now, with you.  How delightful. The next time you two meet up at the pub, you can run through every gory detail."

  " 'Kay. Good. That's good, Sherlock, very good." Greg grunted, and then shook himself like a wet dog. "Wait. What I mean is, it's very brave of you to have told him about it." He slapped both hands hard on the steering wheel. "This... Jesus fuck, Sherlock, this information isn't something that we would gossip about like it's cricket!" Lestrade was so very, very tired; so mentally drained that it actually hurt to think. "I'm your _friend,_ Sherlock, and I sincerely hope that you knew that already. And what's more important here is that John is your _best_ friend. He'd never do anything to purposefully hurt you, or put you in any awkward position with the press. You do get that, right?"

   The genius nodded, embarrassed. His face turned a ruddy shade of pink.

  "Do you know...Christ," Greg snickered, "Forgot that, stupid question. Do you know that I'm actually jealous of you, you lucky bastard? All I have is a slag of an ex-wife, and cold empty flat to come home to. What you two, you and him," Lestrade jerked his thumb up at the shuttered second-storey windows, "have is unique. I've never seen a bloke as loyal to another person as John is." Greg shook his index finger in Sherlock's face. "And don't you for one bloody second think that I never figured out who shot Jeff Hope."

   Sherlock stilled.

  "He seems simple enough on the surface, yeah, but - "

   "It's the jumpers, and his atrocious assortment of mud-coloured cardigans. They're camouflage, Lestrade. He dresses like a librarian on purpose. Can you fathom why?"

   Lestrade sighed. "I've many theories, but no sure answers. And, I am too knackered to run through them now." He peered in the rear-view mirror at his face. "He became a close friend whilst you were gone, did you know that? I would hate to have to pretend about today, coming up with some stupid fib about _this_."

  Sherlock snorted derisively. "As if you could. Your acting skills are appalling." He tried to keep his own burgeoning jealousy out of his voice. 

  Lestrade shot Sherlock an inscrutable look, eyebrows raised. "You might be surprised, my friend, to hear all of the things I've held dear from Your Lordship."

   Sherlock straightened up from his slouch in alarm. "Things? Exactly whatare you hinting at?" He leaned into Lestrade's personal space. "About whom are these thing in reference to? Tell me at once, I demand it."

   Greg swallowed hard. It was if he'd lifted a switch that engaged Sherlock's powers of deduction. _Blimey, I should have kept my big gob shut._ The detective's eyes, virtually colorless in the late afternoon light, hungrily searched his face for clues. Being the subject of such single-minded scrutiny made Lestrade feel distinctly uncomfortable. "Well," he cleared his throat, "let's just say that you're not the only man who has secrets. And Sherlock, I believe that I'll keep it at that." Fidgeting with his safety belt, he added, "After all. It's not my story to tell, so you can put the damper on that little business you do with your eyes."

   "What?"

   "That laser beam glare that you give people when you're trying to deduce them. It's like, you're burrowing into their brains. Listen. You're not going to get any more from me. I'm going in. I need John to see to my nose, and I desperately need a drink." He punctuated his point by opening the panda car door and stepping out. "Are you coming?"

   "Lestrade!" Sherlock yelped, indignant. "I never  _try_ to do anything! And I - hey! Lestrade! I'm not finished with you yet. Get back in this crappy little excuse for a police vehicle this instant.  _Greg!_ "

   ---------

   John had pushed past feeling restless over two dull, interminable hours ago. It felt like ants were crawling on his skin, and the silence started ringing in his ears. The only positive aspect of the day was that his bone-deep post-surgical pain had diminished. It wasn't exactly tolerable per se, but he no longer fought the urge to cry; whimpering pathetically, face smashed red and sweaty into the couch cushions. This was the same damn situation as with his shoulder. The continuous ache served as a vivid reminder that he was injured, infirm, and unfit. Hell's bells, but he'd come full circle. 

    _Buggering fuck._ John picked up his phone and then tossed it to the coffee table in disgust. No new texts, no new calls. Apparently, the sympathy portion of his dilemma had run its course. Now, he faced the mind-numbing notion of being superfluous. He decided to numb himself a little more with the purloined spirits. It really was very good stuff.

  ---------

 

   Sherlock hightailed it until he reached the DI, almost ramming him as Lestrade paused by the door. Then he froze, abruptly aware of the shit storm awaiting him upstairs. Lestrade's face softened as he watched Sherlock shrivel inward, a six-year-old being sent to the Headmaster's office. "Come on, mate," Greg soothed. "I'll follow you up. I think that's for the best, yeah? So up you go, come on." 

   They clumped up the stairs with taut military precision. As usual, the door to the flat was wide open. The muted sounds of crap telly drifted from the sitting room, possibly  _You're Back in the Room._ Did that show really still get airtime? Unbelievable. What was more strange was that John had not switched the station in disgust. Sherlock peered in, squinting through the dark of the flat; the telly being the single light source in the room. "John?" he called, voice barely audible above the programme. If John had fallen asleep, his stay of execution might well be postponed a few hours. 

   "John, you there, mate?" Lestrade called out, sounding like he was suffering from a hell of a head cold. Sherlock flashed the DI a dirty look, but Greg ignored him and pushed past, decisively flicking on the lights. He spied the doctor's right foot jutting out from the side of his low chair. Interesting. John sat with his back to the telly, although, the word "slumped" would serve better in this case. He'd sunk so low that Lestrade couldn't see his head above the chair back, or even the silvery blond tips of his hair. Obviously asleep, then, but why was the telly on if he wasn't in a position to see the screen?

  Stepping closer to the fireplace, Greg got a probable upshot of John's day. He slept, softly snoring; arms and legs spread akimbo, and crutches tangled up on the floor. An uncapped and half-empty bottle of scotch lay wedged between John's hip and the armrest. It rested at a roughly forty-five degree angle, and as far as Lestrade could tell, John had been drinking straight from the bottle. His cheeks were flushed pink, and the air puffing from between his red chapped lips reeked of alcohol. 

   Gently, Greg took possession of the bottle and walked it back in to the kitchen. He didn't bother with trying to locate the cap. The DI returned, bearing a large glass of water and two chalky round tablets of paracetamol. He'd swallowed three of his own in the kitchen whilst sucking water straight from the spigot. "John," Lestrade said loudly, "it's time to wake up. Sherlock and I are back from the case." The doctor's nose twitched, answering Greg with an ear-splitting snore. "John. Mate. I need a bit of doctoring here." Nothing doing. John was  _out._

   "John!" Sherlock bellowed loud as a bull elephant from the relative safety of the kitchen. "Get up! Lestrade requires your immediate medical assistance."

   John's eyes flew wide and he jerked forward. An instant later his hand shot up to shield him from the bright glare of the bare-bulb desk lamp. " _Jheeeez_ -us Greg, give a bloke a heart attack, why don' you?" he snarled, squinting up into the DI's black-and-blue face.

   "Sorry. I'm really very sorry I have to bother you with this, but I'd rather not wait all night at A&E." Feeling conciliatory, Lestrade turned off the desk lamp. "I'm pretty sure that I need my nose set. It's broken, and bloody damn grotesque at the mo'." Seeing John's weight shift, he said, "Stop. I'll bring whatever supplies you need to you here. That is," he grunted, "if you're up for it. It was rude of me to assume..."

   "No. No, izzz fine...yeah. You're fine. Iz all fine. And, I'm fine, too." The doctor peered about, rubbing at the kink in his neck. "Where's Sherlock got to? Did he get hurt as well?"

   At this, the genius slunk into the sitting room, clutching John's medical kit. "No, so in accordance, I'm fine. We're all fine, apparently, isn't that lovely. Now, here. Set Lestrade's nose before he ends up scaring little children in the streets." 

   Lestrade made a face at such cheek. "Here." He handed John the pain meds, which John quickly swallowed with gratitude. The doctor decided to move the proceedings into the bathroom, the flat's usual makeshift surgery. It was easier said than done, but the doctor and the DI made it there in one piece. Twenty minutes and quite a bit of blasphemy later, the men emerged,  from the loo. Lestrade looked ridiculous, nose bound in a beige, thermoplastic nasal splint. The bland colour made his purpling bruises that much more lurid by comparison. John kept see-sawing on his crutches. Lestrade was forced to surreptitiously hold him upright. Both men had sweat beaded on their brows. Both men were obviously in pain.

   Sherlock sat stiff in "Mind Palace" pose, poised in his boxy, pale green chair. John was still rather tipsy, yet he wasn't deceived in the slightest. Sherlock might appear deep in contemplation, but that was bullshit. "Oi. Sherlock," John crowed, nearly yodeling as he stumbled. "Take a look at our new and improved."

   Against his better judgement, the genius acknowledged the summons. He opened his eyes and took a good hard look at his blogger. Lestrade, he couldn't bear to confront. John, he had still yet to deduce. "Feeling any better?" Sherlock queried blandly. "I see that you've chosen to self-medicate with alcohol for the second time in the two days since surgery. Are the analgesics not helping as they should?" 

   "Mmmm. Nope, not really," John opined. "So, Greg! Tell me what happened with your nose. Did you catch that rat bastard baby-raping butcher? Is that the twat who busted you up?"

   Both Greg and Sherlock and blanched in the face of John's crude inquiry. "John," Lestrade said slowly as he moved inward to sit on the couch. "Come sit down, before you fall down. You did a crack job setting my nose; ta for that, by the way. But, you're seriously close to falling on your face. How much have you had to drink today?"

   John manoeuvred his way over to his chair. "Mmm, don't really know, but ta for making me sound like a lush." He plopped down hard on his arse. "How's your own pain situation, by the way?" John parried. "One through ten, and please be honest. My scripts haven't done much for me personally, but our cre....cshre...chemistry is different. Strange word, that... 'chemistry'. Keeeeeh...miss tree. Keh-MYStery. Ha. My point is, I could len' you a tablet or two, if you want to give it a go. Also, they appear to be much more effective when combined with scotch."

   Greg radiated bemusement, and more than a little concern. Two of his best mates had gone around the twist at the same time. What was that thing Sherlock always said? That this couldn't be coincidence, because the universe was rarely so lazy? "No thanks, mate. I think I'll pass. Sooner or later I have to return to the yard. I'm hoping to catch the tail end of the report."

   "Report? Shit, yeah, that's right! Neither one of you fuckers has bothered to tell me what happened," John snorted with derision, soundly smacking his thighs. "So what happened? Who beat up who? And...wait. Greg. Why aren't you  _giving_ the report right now? For fuck's sake, tell me what  _happened!_ "

   An sense of disquiet permeated the room, tension practically emanating from the two detectives' pores. Their eyes met. John watched in increasing frustration as they carried out a furious, yet wordless debate. "Hey!" the doctor sniped, framing his face with his hands. "Eyes on me, you bloody berks! Remember me, the gammy-leg git who was confided - wait - uhm, con _fined_ to the flat like a cripple?"

  Sherlock cleared his throat and jerked his head in John's direction, his gaze remaining on the DI. "Do it, Lestrade," he growled. "Otherwise, the good doctor here will never let it go. Trust me, I've learned from painful and protracted experience. You're a relentlessly nosy little bastard, John," Sherlock spat out sourly. "Quite an excellent trait for solving crime, yet here I find it tedious in the extreme."

   "Piss off," the little man sniped. "I'm sorry if my interest in the case personally offends you." He deeply inhaled in preparation for a rant. "If it's because I wasn't - "

   "John," Lestrade broke in quickly before things became further heated. "Look."

   John sighed, and looked. Greg had obviously suffered enough grief for one day, and he himself hadn't fared much better. As for his flatmate, his attitude was definitely off. Sherlock came back after a case either jubilant over his own brilliance, or irascible and bitter because somebody  _else_ had bungled up the evidence and the case had not yet been solved. "Yeah, okay. I'm sorry I've been such an arse. It's possible that I've had a bit too much to drink, and I was already in a funk as it was."

   "Yes, well. We've all been there, mate. It's alright." Lestrade fidgeted uncomfortably, the leather cushions squeaking in protest. "John, what happened today was...not because of the case. This," he clarified, pointing to his nose. "Uh, shit. I'm just going to lay it out. Sherlock told me that he's filled you in on the events during his time away. Was he telling me the truth?"

   "Yes. He wasn't just having you on." John nodded nervously. "It certainly wasn't an easy tale to listen to. I - hold on, he _told_ you? You told him all of it?" He gaped at his lover in an unhappy amalgamation of shock and alarm. "Sherlock? What happen' today? Are you okay, love?" John made to get up in an effort to reach out and touch Sherlock, to hold him tight in his arms.

   "Stop, John. Don't get up. Please. Please. Let Greg finish before you do anything as kind as to console me. I'm sincerely honoured by your concern. However, in this specific situation, I fear that it's been badly misplaced," the genius snarled. His face twisted up in disgust, the ugly  sentiment aimed at his own useless self. Clenching his fists, Sherlock squashed the compulsion to punch himself smack in the face.

   "Sherlock! What? What?  _Greg?_ " John yelped in incredulity. He gawked at Greg. "What the  _fu_  - "

   The man in question raised his hand to shape a "halt" gesture at John, followed by an impatient "hurry up" over to Lestrade. "Do it. Do it now before my flatmate falls over due to shock at my addressing you by your legitimate first name."

   Lestrade flicked his eyes down to the faded Persian carpet, besmirched by dirt and debris. He took a deep breath, and began. All in all, he spoke for over an hour. Greg felt terrible seeing John's already troubled expression develop into something he could only define as wounded. Occasionally, the little man would open his mouth to make comment, only to snap it shut at Sherlock's shake of the head. By the end, John felt achingly sober.

   ------

   "Excuse me. I have to visit the loo," John whispered after Greg's voice had finally petered out. "My stomach's been off from all of the medicine, see. It strikes at the most inconvenient times," the little man fretted miserably. 

    "John?" Greg said, in an instant halfway up off the couch. "Are you alright, mate? Do you need me to do anything for you?"

    "No, ta," the doctor muttered. "Sherlock is the one whom you should be tending to, he's gone pale as a sheet. I'm sorry, Sherlock," John lamented. "I won't be long...and I'm coming straight back to you, love, I promise." John snatched up the ends of the crutches and gamely forged a path through the mess. "Greg, concentrate your energies on him."

   Greg silently agreed with the doctor. Sherlock Holmes looked like shit. "Sherlock?" he said quietly. "That right now, letting me say these things, and you being honest with John, was amazing. It's the bravest thing that I've ever seen you do." Lestrade refrained from touching his friend, in defiance of his fierce desire to do so. He wanted to hug the crumpled figure, the man now curled into himself like a shrimp.  

   The genius merely shrugged. "It's neither here nor there, but simply the right thing to do. You had the right to name  your attacker."

   "Bugger that!" Greg sputtered. "That's not why I chose to do it. John needed to know for _your_ sake, and you weren't in any condition to do the telling. I'm not _mad_ at you, Sherlock, I'm concerned about your bloody well-being. Sorry for saying so, but frankly, you look like shit!"

   "I. Am. Fine." Sherlock sprang off the couch and disappeared into the dark of the kitchen. "I thought that I'd made that much clear," he added coldly. 

   Lestrade heard the sharp clink of glass hitting glass immediately followed by the sound of liquid sloshing out a bottle. "No you're not," he growled. "I was there today, remember? You are definitely anything but fine." Silence followed from the kitchen, the exception being the slamming of cabinet doors.

  "Care for a nightcap?" Sherlock's voice wafted from the kitchen sounding muffled, as if he'd covered his lips with a hand. He strode long-legged and irritated back into the sitting room, a coffee cup of whisky flush against the rim of his mouth. He'd kindly brought the bottle clutched in his hand, one strong finger looped through the handle of a mug. "It's unfortunate that John neglected to do the washing up today. All of our tumblers are dirty." 

   John ventured back, plopping back down in exhaustion. "Mind that you take a hard look at the bottom before you dare drink, mate. Sherlock's not picky about what containers he uses for experiments." He seemed more relaxed since he'd taken a breather. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

   The detective snorted deep into his cup. "As I can be, John. Greg has been quite solicitous, in spite of my unwarranted assault on his person."

    "Oi," Lestrade objected. "We've been over this, Sherlock. I'm not angry, or pressing charges, or any some such ridiculous thing. I understand why what happened...    _happened._ " He licked his lips as he gathered his thoughts. "And I'm so very glad that John knows as well. You shouldn't keep important things like this secret.  _Neither_ of you should be holding anything back." Greg's attention flipped over to the doctor, who'd started shifting anxiously in his chair. "John, don't you agree?"

 

   


End file.
